The Secrets Of Scary People
by J-Horror Girl
Summary: There's something living in that chest. It's been in there for two hundred years. Don't fool yourself. The lock isn't broken. It just doesn't work... from the outside.
1. Prologue: The Lies We Tell

Disclaimer: I do not own Jonathan Crane or the Scarecrow, nor anything else of DC Comics.

Wherever we go, it's the same, whether it's at a faculty party, a symposium, or a forward planning committee on world domination. Someone will look at me, whom people often describe as 'chilly' 'antiseptic', 'awkward', and my favorite, 'creepy', and then at my wife, Yureiko, who is petite, graceful, sweet-faced and usually smiling, and ask, bewildered, "How did you two meet?", as if we came from different planets.

If I feel the impulse to be rude, I reply, "Oh, I threw her together in the basement out of spare parts." They laugh at that, until my 'chilly' stare and deadpan demeanor get to them. Then I laugh, and say, "Gotcha!", which gets an even bigger laugh. They go on their way, thinking that Crane isn't such a stick in the mud after all. Yureiko thinks it's hilarious, because in a way, it's true.

(On one such occasion, I replied that I bought her from a brothel keeper in Burma for five hundred dollars. She did not find that hilarous. I wound up sleeping on the sofa that night.)

The other reply is a proper 'how we met story'. It's also a complete fabrication. Most often we tell it jointly, over a dinner table, somewhere that we can beam at one another fondly. That part, at least, is genuine.

I usually start, "Well, of course you know I went to Japan a couple of years ago, to return Lady Suzume's remains. While I was there, my host—I was staying with a professor at Tokyo University—introduced me to his niece Yureiko, who was visiting them for part of the summer. I thought she was a lovely young girl, rather serious and quiet. I thought it was very considerate of her to offer to show me the sights the next day, and I certainly didn't want to be rude."

"But we were thinking two different things." Yureiko frequently adds, in her charmingly accented voice. "We went to the important temples and gardens in the University area, and by the time we stopped for a bowl of noodles, I was very hot and thirsty, so I ordered a beer. Jonathan, who was sitting at the counter, suddenly sits up even straighter, and says, 'I'm sorry. I don't know what they let you do at home, but I wouldn't feel comfortable with providing alcohol to a minor.' I could only look at him with my mouth open, and then I asked him, 'How old do you think I am?' And he says—."

I take over again at that point. "'Fourteen!' Mind you, I thought she was a very intelligent, well-informed, and poised fourteen year old—much more so, in fact, than many of the college graduates we turn out over here."

At less than five feet tall, Yureiko, with her triangular kitten's face and her slim, delicately formed figure, makes the error plausible. "And she replied, 'I'm twenty-four.'"

"I was shocked." Yureiko laughs. "It took a moment for that to sink in, and then I wanted to cry. I liked him so much already—I could barely look at him because I was afraid I couldn't stop staring at his eyes—I hadn't met very many Americans then, but he was so different than how I thought of them—not loud or fat or overfriendly—and he was different from the young men I knew, too. I never dated very much, either. I'm not fun. I don't have a cute personality, I would rather go to the dentist than to a karaoke club, and I don't care for pachinko. And I'm quiet and I read a lot. All that meant I stayed at home most nights."

"All of those statements could be said to apply to me as well." I contribute.

She nods. "I'd never asked a man out on a date before, and it took a lot of courage to do it. So I asked him, 'Then what did you think we were doing today? Because I thought we were on a date.' He didn't answer, and I couldn't bear it any longer, so I ran out of the noodle shop."

"I was still in shock myself." I tell our by-now rapt audience. "I'm thinking—twenty-four? She's twenty-four? And _she_ asked _me _out? Being no fun myself, and not having a cute personality either—not to mention being broke for so many years while I went through both college and medical school, I had come to believe I was completely undateable.I realized I had to go after her. There was no way I was letting this one slip through my fingers. So when I caught up with her, I apologized and explained, and then we went back for that beer."

"And when we were drinking it, he said, 'This will make a great story to tell, someday." Yureiko blushed.

"I was right, wasn't I?" I counter.

Then we smile at each other while our listeners laugh, and come out with 'how-we-met' stories of their own, reassured that the Cranes are a nice, normal young couple, after all.

The truth—the real truth—is much stranger and much more interesting.

It began when my nose itched...

* * *

A/N: I took the weekend off of writing because it was so beautiful, and now I'm stalled on Can't Get You Out Of My Head. I'm hoping this gets me back on the fanfic bicycle. The title of this story is taken from a line Falcone has in Batman Begins: "Ignorance is bliss, my friend. Don't burden yourself with the secrets of scary people."

And anyone who's curious as to who I would cast as Yureiko should go to Youtube and look up Yukie Nakama, an exceptionally fine Japanese comedian and actress.


	2. Peniaphobia: The Fear of Poverty

Like any other renter of real estate, storage space companies occasionally have to evict tenants for nonpayment. However, that leaves them out of pocket for the lost rental fees and with another problem: what to do with the goods left behind? The logical solution for such companies was to sell whatever they found for whatever they could get, but there were complicated legalities involved to protect the renters. Yes, the company could sell it, but they could not go into the space to touch or inspect the goods, nor permit any prospective buyers to do so, either.

There is an expression about not buying a pig in a poke which dates back centuries. The poke, in this case, is not a finger prod but a sack used to transport a piglet to market for sale. The seller would claim the squirming, active piglet was too restive for the bag to be opened, even for a quick peek and the buyer would have to pay for it sight unseen. Anyone foolish enough to fall for that would find they had bought a cat instead—not nearly as good for raising and eating. This auction was one enormous poke, in my opinion.

What sort of person would bid on an item they could only look at from a distance and in dim light? Who would risk hundreds, perhaps thousands of dollars, on a lot of goods which might turn out to be no more than outgrown clothing and broken toys?

In the small crowd gathered there that Saturday morning were an eccentrically dressed couple of indeterminate gender who ran a vintage clothing and housewares store, a number of retirees who held regular garage sales or sold at flea markets, some get-rich-quick dreamers, and me.

We waited in hushed anticipation as the auctioneer nodded to the storage space employee to roll up the door and reveal whatever was inside. Would it be the remnants of someone's failed business? All the furniture that wouldn't fit in the new house the empty-nesters downsized to? A motorcycle? The door went up and a billow of pungent dust rolled out.

The only item in the space was shrouded in a tarp, but it looked to be about six feet long by three feet high and wide, a sizeable rectangle.

"All right, folks. You can see it as clearly as I do." The auctioneer played a flashlight beam over the stained, dust coated tarpaulin. "Do I hear one dollar?"

I had gone to the storage space company auction as an observer of human psychology, not as a bidder, although to get in, I had to register as one. No looky-lous permitted; serious buyers only. Part of the registration involved signing a waiver stating that I understood I would be held legally responsible for all bids I made, etc. I didn't pay too much attention to the fine print, which was a mistake. Or maybe not, considering the outcome. Someone else will have to decide.

The bidding went on around me, rapidly escalating to fifty and then one hundred dollars. I wasn't too concerned about the amounts involved, because I was watching the faces of the bidders. If they were willing to bid sixty, why not bid seventy? It wasn't that much more. And once they had bid seventy, was eighty too much of a stretch? The little tensions that played themselves out as the bidders made decisions were fascinating.

Most of the other lots had gone for two or three hundred dollars, but this one, for some reason, just kept on going. Perhaps it was the mystery; that which is hidden is more alluring than what is naked, a fact well known to anyone who visits both nude and clothed beaches.

The vintage shop owners bid but dropped out early; one retiree went as far as five hundred before he gave up. The bids went to a thousand, then to two thousand. As subtle as the signals bidders made were, it could be hard to tell who was actually bidding; one was a man in late middle age, balding and not hiding it well with a comb over; his face was red, perhaps unhealthily so. He wore a business suit, which made him stand out in the crowd of more casually dressed auction goers. Even I had dressed down in khakis and a sweater.

He quit at two thousand three hundred and fifty dollars. It was the highest bid on any lot that day. I looked around to see who had bought that particular pig in a poke—only to find that the storage space owner was walking over to _me_. And beaming.

He was beaming a lot. "Will that be cash or credit, sir?" he asked. "I can even take a check; we've got that Instacheck machine now, so it's just as good as cash."

"Excuse me?" I asked. I did mention the pungent dust and my itching nose, didn't I? By rubbing my nose at intervals, I had just inadvertently bought myself a huge metaphoric pig—and wiped out my life's savings.

At this point I must delve into my past by way of explanation. I didn't have a credit card, which put me in the minority in those pre-economic rash days. I used a debit card instead. While yes, I was a trained and licensed psychiatrist, I didn't have the income to match. Having expected--having _hoped_ the hospital where I did my residency would offer me a permanent position, I was left hanging without a job, and the only one I could find on short notice was that of assistant professor of psychology at Gotham University. As far as salary went, the campus bookstore's assistant manager made more than I did. In addition to which, I had nearly a hundred thousand dollars in student loans to pay off.

My life's savings only amounted to a little more than two thousand dollars, and I had wrung that out only by practicing the severest economies I could, not just forgoing luxuries like cable television (I hardly watched TV anyway) and Starbucks coffee rather than the battery acid that passed for coffee in the cafeteria, but putting off the necessities, such as a new coat in a weight better suited to Gotham winters, new shirts and socks (the female students snickered critically at my clothes). I made frugal choices about what I had to spend money on--canned tuna fish instead of salmon filet, beans and rice instead of hamburgers, going with ugly frames for my new glasses because that was all the insurance would cover. I hadn't even bought a book in months!

If the University didn't extend me a contract for another year, that two thousand was my only margin of security against an uncertain future.

"There's been a mistake. I wasn't bidding on anything." I tried.

It did not work. The storage space manager let me know that he had no patience with fake bidders and was prepared to take legal action unless I paid up, and paid right then, right there. I had signed the waiver when I registered, saying I understood the rules. There was no wiggle room.

I couldn't afford to get into a legal battle. Even if I won, paying for a lawyer would devour my money just as surely. "What about the other bidder--the one I _unintentionally_ bid against?" I wasn't above flipping this sale around immediately. If he were willing to pay me even two thousand, I could eat the three hundred and fifty.

"He left already." the manager explained.

"Surely you have contact information for him?" The only thing they hadn't wanted to know at registration was blood type, I remembered that.

"That's confidential." he told me curtly.

What a disaster... I thought over my options, which were few. Pay and be broke, refuse to pay and still go broke--but there was the off chance that whatever it was under the tarp was worth something. Perhaps even more than what I would pay for it. The other bidder had been willing to go up to two thousand three hundred for it, after all. Perhaps he knew something the manager didn't know.

I took out my wallet. "Here you go. I don't suppose delivery is included?"

Of course it wasn't.


	3. Amathophobia: The Fear of Dust

Brief as the firefly's flash

Such was my happiness

And my life.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

I waited while the manager went off to run my debit card through his machine like a vampire sucking the last drops of lifeblood from an unsuspecting victim. He returned shortly with the receipts and the key to the storage space. "There you go," he said cheerfully. "You have till Wednesday to empty out the unit. After that, I'll have to start charging you for it. We do ask that you clean it up when you're through, not leaving any trash behind and sweeping up a bit."

"Very well," I said sourly, accepting the key and the record of my folly. "Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

"Hmmm—if you find anything that's purely sentimental, like family photo albums or somebody's grandma's cremated remains, it's considered polite to return it to the owner if they come looking—but I don't think that's going to happen in this case."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because that unit was rented way back in 1977. The guy paid for twenty-five years up front—and nobody's seen hide nor hair of him since."

That was interesting, but I had more important matters to attend to. Taking out my handkerchief, I held it over my nose and mouth as I prepared to cross the threshold—but then I noticed something.

"A moment." I called the manager back.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I thought no one was allowed to enter the unit unless it was the owner—but look for yourself." There were footprints in the thick dust inside. "Someone's been in there."

He squinted at the marks. "Must have happened while your back was turned." he decided. "Probably a kid—look at how small those tracks are. Anyhow, they don't go anywhere near your whatsit, so you're okay." He shone his flashlight around the tarp, where the dust was undisturbed.

"It's the principle of the thing." I said, knowing I sounded stuffy.

"Sorry for the inconvenience," he said, insincerely. "Here, why don't you borrow my flashlight? You can drop it by the office when you're done."

"Thanks." I said, and went in, trying not to kick up any more dust. The tarp was practically furry with it. Shutting off the flashlight, and stuffing it in my pocket, I clamped my handkerchief over my face, closed my eyes, and peeled the canvas back with the other hand.

I waited for three breaths before I opened my eyes again, to behold—a sarcophagus? I took out the flashlight and trained it on the object before me. No, not a sarcophagus. A chest made of light, golden brown wood with dark metal fittings. Its lines were clean and sharp, without any decorative carving, although the protective hardware at the corners and edges was distinctly ornamental. As I stepped closer to it, I saw a pale rectangle on the floor. Picking it up, I discovered it was an old-fashioned gummed label, now yellowed with age. The glue had lost its grip sometime in the last twenty-five years, and I had dislodged it when I pulled off the tarp, no doubt.

The heading on it read: Randell & Briggs, Fine Antiques, and then it gave the address and phone number. By the typeface and style, it had been printed before 1960.

Under that, neatly typed, was this: Dowry Chest?? of unusual design. Mid Edo period, Japan, circa 1725-1775. Paulownia wood with red enameled iron hardware. Lock plate with stylized grape leaf crest belonging to the Murasaki clan, noted retainers of the Tokugawa Shogunate. Inscribed characters read: Lady Suzume Murasaki. Non-Functional: Lock does not work, chest does not open.

So it was an Asian antique, then. Potentially quite valuable...Maybe this would turn out all right after all. But what about this lock that wouldn't work? I walked around the box, admiring it. The wood had a fine, straight grain to it, and a soft, mellow finish. I touched it; it was smooth and pleasant to the hand. Ah, there was the lock plate, with a circular design which, if one looked at it long enough, was not unlike a grape leaf. The lock was like nothing I had ever seen. I tried it; nothing budged.

Could no one seduce the lock into opening, oiling it and coaxing it with educated fingers and the proper tools? Why had no one taken a crow bar to it, made it yield to force when persuasion didn't work? But no, it would be a sacrilege to rend and splinter this wood, marring it irreparably. Besides, there wasn't enough of a gap between the lid and the body of the chest to slip even a piece of paper between them. Perhaps a diamond saw would work.... How heavy was it?

I braced my feet on the floor and tried to lift up one end. It wouldn't move, but when I turned around and put my back into it, I could make it shift a little. Heavy enough—too heavy for me to move on my own. Maybe it wasn't a real chest. Could it have been carved out of a solid block of wood? I walked around it again. No. It was clearly made of individual pieces that had been cut and fitted together.

Making a fist, I knocked on it, to see if it would echo, meaning it was empty, or thud, meaning it was full.

Something knocked back.

I started, leapt backward and tangled my feet up in the discarded tarp, so that I sat down suddenly and involuntarily. It hadn't—it couldn't have—No. It only sounded as though someone had replied to my knuckle rapping with a knock of their own. There was something loose inside the chest, something that fell over and made a noise.

(like what?) part of my brain asked me.

That I didn't know, but I would find out just as soon as I opened it up—and I was determined to open it. A dowry was, as I well knew, what a bride brought with her to her marriage. Not just her clothing and personal belongings, but money and other valuables. A bride from a family with connections to the Shogun—my notions about exactly what or who the Shogun was, were very vague, and connected to a dim memory of watching Richard Chamberlain cavorting around in a kimono on television, but I was fairly sure it was a position of power. Power and money went together like bread and butter.

Even if there was nothing of value inside, a functional chest would be worth more than a non-functional one—yet another reason to get it open somehow.

I untangled my feet from the tarp and started to stand—but there was something caught in the folds of canvas. It proved to be an ordinary large brown envelope, not sealed, and with the message **To Whom It May Concern** in place of the address. I opened it, and pulled out a typed document several pages long.

The first page began: I_f you are reading this, then the rental is expired or maybe you broke in looking for something to steal. I don't know and I don't care. This is a warning to you. Whatever you do, don't take this thing home with you. There's something living in that chest. It's been in there for over two hundred years. Don't fool yourself. That lock isn't broken. It just doesn't work from the outside._

Now I was on more familiar territory. Paranoia was something I understood. However, the flashlight's batteries had been growing weaker and weaker while I admired the chest, and I wasn't about to give myself eyestrain reading in the dark. Practical considerations had to come before pleasure reading.

I put the document away, tucked the envelope under my arm, and went off to find a way of getting this thing home.

* * *

A/N: So, you may be wondering, what's with the poem? Where'd it come from? I wrote it, along with the rest of this fic, and there may be more. And the phobia chapter titles are probably going to continue as long as I can find appropriate ones.

(But what you're probably wondering about more is: What about Can't Get You Out Of My Head?) I am working on the next chapter, and it will go up Monday if not before. Oh, and here's a funny. I was telling a friend about Can't, and she said, "You should have called it You're The One That I Haunt." Damn, but I wish I'd thought of that first.


	4. Ataxiophobia: The Fear of Untidiness

Yesterday, one cat. Today, six.

Five new kittens in my mending basket.

Little cat, how naughty you have been!

--Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790

* * *

Several hours and two hundred dollars later, two burly anthropoids staggered up my front walk, sweating and straining under the weight of the chest. Since it has a bearing on later events, it's worth expending a few words now to describe my living situation.

I lived in a two bedroom Stickley Craftsman bungalow, courtesy of one of the University's benefactors. A little over a century ago, he donated a piece of land under the condition that it be used for faculty housing, a very kind gesture to be sure. Some particularly discerning individual hired Gustav Stickley, known for designing both simple, practical houses and furniture, to plan and develop the community, and he produced the Horseshoe, named for the shape of the street that run through it. Twenty single family houses, ten on either side of the street, arranged around a small park in the center. Every single inch of the Horseshoe is now protected by the National Historic Preservation Society, safe from bulldozers, remodellers, and people who would paint them fluorescent orange with sky blue trim.

As one can imagine, every faculty member wants to live in the Horseshoe, but there are never many vacancies and some years, none at all. To avoid any hint of favoritism or prejudice, the University holds a lottery. I lucked out. Consequently I was renting an entire house for about the same amount that I would have paid for a one bedroom apartment.

Unlocking the front door, I got out of the way as the anthropoids grunted their way in. "Where do you want it?" asked one of them.

"In the middle of the living room," I directed.

"Nice place you got here," commented the other, looking around as they crab-walked their way to the empty space and set the chest down.

"Thank you." I replied. It was a nice place, the nicest I had ever lived—although I was mindful of the fact that it, like my position at the University, might vanish from my life in a few months. I was trying not to become too accustomed to the privacy and space I enjoyed there.

"Bet you live alone, though." commented the first, straightening up and rubbing his back.

I had no sofa, only a reading chair and a lamp, and since Stickley had thoughtfully lined the room with built-in bookshelves, I had filled them up. Likewise, the dining room was now my study, with my desk, my computer, and more books, so I suppose it was obvious I had no significant other. "I don't see what business it is of yours." I retorted.

"Hey, I'm just saying." He defended his observation. "You really read all these books?"

Why do people ask that question? "Yes, several times over." They stood there looking at me, and I looked back at them until it was obvious I wasn't going to tip them , and they left, grumbling about it.

I looked at the chest, which looked more at home than any of my other furniture—which is not saying much, since the rest of my furniture was junk. But the natural wood of the chest went with the wood floor and the stone fireplace as if Stickley had chosen it to fit into the space.

However, I was hungry and standing around admiring the chest wasn't going to get my dinner ready. I turned on my ancient laptop on the way to the kitchen, as it needed several minutes to boot up properly.

I put a portion of beans and rice in the microwave, poured myself a glass of tea, and took the ice packs out of the freezer at the same time I topped up the glass with a few cubes. The ice packs were for the computer, not for me; it ran hot, but with the ice under it, I could coax almost an hour of use out of it.

Wrapping the packs in towels, and putting the laptop on them, the first thing I did was look up 'Lady Suzume Murasaki'. I found a great deal about an earlier Lady Murasaki, apparently an ancestor of 'my' Lady Murasaki. The previous Murasaki had been a lady of the Imperial Court, and was the author of The Tale Of Genji, a great classic of world literature and one of the oldest novels still in existence—but nothing about her descendant Suzume. Disappointing, but not too surprising.

Then I looked up 'Paulownia wood chests', and found a great deal more information. Apparently there was a tradition among the upper class in Japan of planting a paulownia tree whenever a girl was born. When she was old enough to be thinking of marrying, the tree would be big enough to harvest and use for her clothing chest. Paulownia wood, according to several authorities, was an excellent wood for cabinets and furniture, being naturally flame-retardant, light yet very strong, resistant to mildew, and insects, unlikely to warp in humid weather, and easy to work. Furthermore, it was valuable enough that people poached trees from other people's property.

While there were several on line antique dealers who carried paulownia wood chests, I couldn't get an idea of the value mine might have; there were too many variables. However, that reminded me to look up the antique dealer whose label I had found in the storage space, Randell and Briggs. They still existed, although they had moved to a new location. If they kept records going back far enough, perhaps I could discover who had last owned it. I wrote them a quick e-mail, just as a casual inquiry.

At about that point, the laptop CPU began making a grinding sound, the last stage before it melted down, and I realized I had forgotten my beans and rice. So I shut down the computer and reheated the food.

Usually I ate in the kitchen, standing up, but not tonight. Tonight I spread a clean towel over the chest, set my meal and my tea on that, and pulled up my reading chair. A swallow of tea, a bite of beans and rice, and the To Whom It May Concern document. What more could I ask for?

* * *

The Document:

If you are reading this, then the rental is expired or maybe you broke in looking for something to steal. I don't know and I don't care. This is a warning to you. Whatever you do, don't take this thing home with you. There's something living in that chest. It's been in there for over two hundred years. Don't fool yourself. That lock isn't broken. It just doesn't work from the outside.

I found it in the basement of this place I was living, I won't tell you where because I don't want you tracking me down. I had just moved into a new apartment, and I went down there to use the laundry room. My girlfriend was with me, and she saw it first. There was a drop cloth over it and a lot of paint cans piled on it, and I wanted to leave it there, but she said everything Asian was in right now, and she went to ask the landlady if we could have it. She said it was fine with her, so my girlfriend cleaned it up and my friends and I took it upstairs. My girl tried to get it open and so did a couple of our friends and I even tried, but it wouldn't open. So we shoved it against the one wall, and I didn't think anything else of it.

A few days later I started noticing that when I got home from work, things weren't in the same places I left them, like the soap would be on the wrong side of the sink. Or that somebody had been through my drawers looking at all my clothes. Stuff started disappearing: food, towels, spare bedsheets. At first I thought the landlady was doing it, or a former tenant who made a copy of the key, so I changed the locks. The next day I came home, and all my shirts had been cut apart and sewn back together.

I spent the night with my girlfriend at her place. When I got home the next day, my pet turtle was gone from his tank. I found parts of him in the kitchen sink. His shell, his head, and his feet.

I think it ate the rest.

I called the police. They came and took notes, but I could tell they didn't believe me. Maybe I left a window open and a raccoon got in, one said. I said I hadn't left any windows open and there weren't any raccoons in downtown Gotham, and anyway, the cuts were clean, like they'd been made with a knife.

So you're a forensics expert, he sneered. Okay, so it was rats not a raccoon.

I went back to my girlfriend's and stayed there for two days. When I got back, the place had been torn apart and the chest was open. I could see inside it from the front door, and it looked just like a mouth, an open mouth. It had jagged white teeth and it was wet and red inside. I slammed the door behind me and ran.

Three of my friends went back with me. The chest was closed again and everything was put back where it belonged, more or less. I laughed and tried to say it was a joke, but they didn't believe me. I tried to go back to my girlfriend, but she wouldn't let me in. I was freaking her out.

So I went home to pack some clothes and go to a hotel. Everything seemed okay until I went into the closet to get my suitcase.

That was where it was. I touched it before I saw it, and it was wet and cold, with hair all over its body. Like a dead ape. I screamed and tried to hit it, and it howled, it flew at me, scratching and biting. After that, I don't know what happened, but the neighbors found me unconscious on the floor and called an ambulance.

When I got to the hospital I made a mistake. I told the doctor what really happened and they put me in the mental ward for observation. I was there for three days, but while I was there I figured out what to do. I would tell them what they wanted to hear, and then I would go home and get rid of the chest.

After that, everything would be fine.

I was wrong.

TBC....

* * *

A/N: Yes, I promised another chapter of Can't today. It will have to be tomorrow instead. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this!


	5. Pygmachophobia: The Fear Of Boxes

My old string of beads

Who will play with you

Since I have no baby?

---Lady Suzume Murasaki

* * *

I paused for a moment in my reading. This narrative reminded me of my childhood—well, of the good part of my childhood, not the endless hours spent under my great-grandmother's watchful eye in the vegetable garden and the cornfield, weeding, watering, trying to wring food out of ground that grew more barren by the year.

No, this reminded me of long winter afternoons spent in the tiny school library, reading my way through every volume. In spring, summer and fall, I had to go straight home, to tend the fields, but in winter—in winter I could stay late and read. The library had one of those carbon-arc heaters by the front desk and I would sit so near it that my skin tightened and my face flushed, trying to soak up enough heat to get me home—and keeping within hearing range of Mrs. Baldwin, the librarian. W hile she was entirely indifferent to my presence, no kid dared pick on me while she reigned from her red leather throne.

My favorites were the anthologies. Alfred Hitchcock's sardonic story collections; a series by Helen Hoke where every title was a word repeated three times: Weirdies Weirdies Weirdies, for example. I gorged on those short stories, I licked them up with my eyes and went back for more. The scary stories were the best, because I could work myself up into near-paroxysms of fear. I found it wonderfully distracting.

How much better it was to read about ghosts and monsters and strange things that beat at the windows at night, than to face the fact that when I got home, dinner would be a single jar of string beans my great-grandmother canned the summer before, split between the two of us. Or any of the other realities of my nightmarish life.

But although this was a work of fiction, it wasn't an intentional one. It was the outpourings of a man whose paranoid tendencies had focused themselves on a innocuous piece of furniture. A latent racial phobia, perhaps, a repugnance for Asians he could not voice aloud? I ate some more, and went back to reading.

* * *

The Document:

When I went back to my apartment I took a baseball bat with me, and food, all kinds of food, to lure it out. I hadn't been home for days, so I knew it must be hungry. I got a roast chicken, fried fish, French fries, whatever I could think of that smelled good. I rolled up the grocery bags tight, and I put them on the kitchen counter. The bags would make a noise when the thing opened them, that was the idea

I pretended to go to out, but I was waiting right inside my apartment in the coat closet, with the door open just a crack, and the baseball bat in my hand, listening. If I could kill that thing or at least knock it out, if I had proof to show people, then they would know I was telling the truth. I waited for a long time. It was after dark before it came out, but finally there was the sound of feet padding on the kitchen floor and a bag rattling as that thing opened it.

I threw the closet door open and barged in. Its face—its face was awful, because it was so close to human. It had a nose and mouth and chin like a girl's, but its teeth were black, shiny and black, and it had two pairs of eyes, one in the regular place and one in its forehead. It screamed like a woman when I raised the bat, and it tried to get away, but I hit it hard, once over the head, and then in the ribs. It sobbed like a child as it crawled away.

Then I heard someone knocking on the door. It was my girlfriend. What was that, she asked. You know you can't have the TV that loud at night, the neighbors will bitch.

Come in the kitchen, I told her. First she saw the bags from the store, and she asked, You having a party?

No. Look at this. I showed her the thing. That's what's been living in my apartment. It came out of the chest.

She bent over it—Oh God, what is it?

I don't know. I said. Maybe something like the Morlocks, like in that Time Machine movie. They might have to study it.

Oh, shit oh God oh shit, it's a kid. An Asian girl. she moaned.

No. Look closer. I told her. Look at its face.

I am, you stupid piece of shit. She's got on Kabuki makeup or something. Oh, God. She's so young. She's just a kid...I don't think she's breathing. What the hell did you do? Oh, God. Oh, God. We've got to call an ambulance.

It was being clever, you see. If it could live in that box for two hundred years then it didn't need to breathe, and obviously it could change how it looked.

No, I told my girlfriend. I just didn't hit it hard enough. Get out of the way.

No, don't, she told me. She grabbed my arm and fought me. I didn't mean to hit her. I swear to God I didn't. While I was trying to take care of her, the thing disappeared. It got back in the chest. So then I had two problems, my girlfriend who was unconscious and the thing in the chest. I called an ambulance for my girl and while it was on its way I took the chest down to my van. It was heavy, but I had adrenaline to help me.

I wished I could have stayed to make sure my girlfriend was going to be all right but I knew I had to get rid of that thing while I could. While it was still weak. While it was still hurt. The ambulance was rounding the corner when I drove off in the other direction. I knew they would find her as I'd left the apartment door open. That shows I cared, that I wasn't trying to kill her.

I drove down by the riverfront to a place I knew where there was a vacant lot, and I tried to set fire to it.

I poured gasoline all over it and the gas burned but the chest wouldn't burn. I threw it in the river, but when I got back to the van, it was there again. Not wet, not even a little bit.

So I got the idea of just putting it somewhere safe, somewhere quiet. Who knew how long the chest had been down in that basement with the paint cans on it? It was only when we brought the chest upstairs where there was light and noise and food that the thing woke up. I came up with a plan.

I waited until it was light. Then I went to my bank. I had some bonds my grandfather left me in a safe deposit box, and I cashed them in. The bank has a typewriter in a little cubicle for customers to use if they need to make out a document or something, and that's what I'm writing this on. I know I rushed and hurried toward the end, but I wanted to get it finished and done with. I know I haven't much time.

I am going to rent a storage space for as long a term as this money will get me, and I'm going to leave the chest in there, and this account of what happened with it.

After that, well, I know the police will be looking for me because of my girlfriend, so I am going to turn myself in. If somehow I'm wrong about the chest, I don't think it can get to me in a police station or a mental ward. If I'm right, then it will still be here with this.

Don't take it home.

Don't wake it up.

If you do, when it comes out, it'll be hungry.

I've done my best to warn you.

It's up to you now.

* * *

I blinked and took off my glasses to rub my eyes. Transitioning from reading back into reality always annoyed me. What an interesting study in the disintegration of a psyche... I sat up and reached for my tea, only to find there was very little left, only a swallow or two. I didn't remember having drunk so much of it, or having eaten that much, but when I read, I got so absorbed I sometimes forgot about minor details, such as when I left my hot food grow cold in the microwave while I looked things up on the Internet.

But for a moment, only a split second, I felt a frigid chill down my spine at the thought that it had been devoured by the Thing inside the chest.

My sweater got caught on part of the ironwork when I tried to raise the glass to my lips, however, and when I tried to untangle the snag, I realized the nailhead it was caught on was loose—no, not loose, but moveable. It was a catch, hidden among the decorative details. Excited now, I dropped to my knees, feeling every nailhead along the lid edge for more catches. I found them, spaced evenly at intervals. This was the secret! If one didn't know what to look for, the chest would never open, even if it were unlocked. As the catches clicked open, the gap between the lid and the chest widened, until at last, the lid jerked up and _open_.

It was actually open. I stood up, hyperventilating with anticipation, and lifted the lid.

For a moment, I saw what the narrator had seen, a red mouth surrounded by jagged white teeth—but then my thoughts caught up with my eyes, and I saw it for what it was.

A red satin kimono, spread out wide. The white teeth were actually white wings, embroidered bird wings, reaching around the kimono sides.

And the birds were _cranes_.

I took that as a good omen.

* * *

A/N: I'm working on Can't. I really am! But this demanded to be written!


	6. Philophobia: The Fear of Falling In Love

Wild geese overhead

Brush strokes against the sky

Spell out my longing.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790

* * *

The cranes were depicted in flight over a landscape of pines and weeping cherry trees in bloom. There was writing on it, too, although I couldn't begin to guess what it meant. It must have been a costly garment, just judging by the number of tiny stitches, not to mention the gold threads which accented the design.

I reached down to pick it up by the sleeves, but it proved unexpectedly heavy, and the antique fabric started to tear under its own weight. Hastily I gathered up the skirt as well, and draped it carefully over my chair without damaging it further. It had to weigh at least seven or eight pounds. How had a woman ever managed to get around in such a dress, burdened as she must have been by her clothing?

However, there was a lot more in the chest than just that. Nearly every cubic inch was filled—ah, but there was the thing that knocked back when I sounded the chest. A scroll wound on a wooden holder. I unrolled a foot of paper, wondering what all the writing meant. Perhaps I could find someone to translate it—I set the scroll aside.

Under the kimono were four leather boxes. Opening one, I discovered—more kimonos, three of them, and other items as well. They weren't as heavily embroidered, but the colors were rich and subtle, suggesting autumn. Midnight blue with tree branches bearing orange fruit, elegant red-brown with ivory clouds and a flock of birds in fanciful colors, and October sky-blue with autumn leaves...I left them in their box and went on to the other boxes, which held kimonos for the other three seasons.

Most people, I suppose, would compare what I was feeling to the excitement of Christmas and birthdays, but not I. Illegitimate as it was, my birth was no cause for rejoicing, and so my birthdays went by barely recognized, much less celebrated. And all that Christmas meant to me was a larger than usual meal and a book that described in detail what happened to children who were bad. I enjoyed the meal, anyway. So this was much better than birthdays or Christmas. This was entirely new.

I put the four kimono boxes over by the stairs leading to the second floor, and started on the next layer, which was more boxes, but differing in size and shape. The first was weighty. An octagonal, black lacquered container with gold-colored branches painted on it, it tied with a heavy silk cord. The box came apart into two deep trays filled with clam shells. The outsides looked like any other clam shells, but inside they were painted with various different flowers and writing. I laid them all out on the floor, painted sides up, counting as I went. There were three hundred and sixty shells, and I was wondering what they meant, what they could possibly be for, when it hit me.

I laughed. It was a _memory_ game, just like the ones we played with cards—or nowadays, on a computer. Each shell matched to one other shell, in pairs. When they were all face down, you had to choose two and try to match them up. Who would have thought that people in Edo Japan and 21st century America would have the same pastimes? How strange, and yet not strange at all. I gathered the shells up and put them away once more.

Something like this game, which had come down two hundred years in perfect condition, did not belong in private hands. It should be in a museum—and if there was a museum out there willing to make me an offer, it would be. It would be nice to see a little placard underneath it reading: _Gift of Dr. Jonathan Crane_, but I couldn't afford that kind of pride, not when I might be out on the street again come June.

The next box was a sewing kit, more practical than decorative, and the next one after that, a makeup case. At least that was what I guessed it to be, as it had a mirror, little brushes, tweezers, dishes and jars with powders and pastes in them. From the smell, I guessed that most of the ingredients had gone bad—although I could have sworn one of the jars was half-full of powdered bird guano. A mystery...

The mirror inside was ruined; the backing had peeled off, leaving only a round piece of glass and a scrap of tarnished foil. What sort of face had it reflected? Was she lovely or plain? Virtuous or selfish? It was safe to guess that she had been young, both from the colors of her wardrobe and by the fact that this was her dowry chest.

By what circuitous route had her chest reached Gotham City? Surely her family would have wanted to keep these personal treasures. I could not imagine that her marriage had been happy or fulfilling. The perfume of melancholy clung to these belongings. In the United States, when a girl put things away in a chest to save for her future life, it was called a hope chest. This was a hopeless chest. Had her grandchildren played with those shells, they would have been chipped and broken, not as perfect as though they had been packed the day before.

Ah, well. For all I knew, she had been an anal-retentive who kept her dowry chest as pristine as some women did their sitting rooms, ever ready for a visit from an important guest and never to be used by family except for weddings and funerals.

More boxes, more discoveries. A bronze incense burner in the shape of a dragon, a very large box of books—a portable desk with compartments for writing instruments and paper. The last item was much used, unlike the shell memory game. She liked to write, but what had flowed from her brush? Letters? Stories? Poetry? What were these other instruments for, this shallow, sloping stone dish, this little ladle?

"Oh, for Jung's sake." I said out loud, disgusted by myself. I had known academics who fell in love with historical figures, and I had thought it ridiculous and embarrassing, barely more respectable than Star Trek fandom. They often formed societies, practically erected secular shrines to the objects of their displaced affections. Richard the Third, Mary, Queen of Scots—such passions paid no heed to gender, age, sexuality. Was I now to become one of them?

"Nonsense." I put the brush I was holding away and closed the desk. There was still more to explore, and the hour was growing late.

The next box I opened was full of hair ornaments, some set with semiprecious gemstones, some with paper-thin metal pendants or charms. Some were black—tarnished silver, perhaps? With everything in here, perhaps I would be able to donate the shell game after all.

Then I found the gold.

It was a small box, surprisingly heavy for its size, and when I opened it, I saw five objects wrapped in pieces of white silk, with a paper band and a wax seal around each. Slipping the paper band off, I unwrapped it—to find I was looking at a small gold ingot. Or a small ingot of yellow metal, anyway.

It was oblong, a rectangle with rounded corners, and about the size of a fun size Hershey's bar, the kind given out at Halloween. It was engraved with wavy grooves on one side, and several small flowers had been tooled onto each side. Someone had written on it with ink.

It was much darker and richer looking than the fourteen karat gold most commonly used for jewelry in America, or even the eighteen karat gold preferred in Europe. Had I not gone to medical school with a woman from India who only wore traditional jewelry, I wouldn't have recognized it.

It was at least twenty karat gold—if it was real. I dug my fingernail into the edge very carefully, and it gave. It was soft, very soft—an argument for its being real. Well, I had a small chemical laboratory set up down in the basement. I had nitric acid on hand, so I could give it the acid test. Without control samples of various karats of gold, I couldn't determine the purity, but I could at least tell if it was really gold

First, however, I peeked in the other four packages without opening them. Yellow metal gleamed at me. Taking the box along with me, in order to measure the ingots accurately on my scales, I went down to my home lab.

The acid test is not a complicated one. One rubs a yellow metal object against a stone until a trace of yellow metal appears on the stone. Then one drips a solution of nitric acid on the trace. If it isn't gold, the trace will dissolve and disappear. If it is gold, the trace will still be there—unless you've used too strong a solution of acid. The purer the gold, the stronger a solution it will withstand. I performed the necessary actions, dripped the solution, and waited.

Was this how a woman felt when she waited to see the results of her pregnancy test, the feeling that one's entire future hung in the balance?

The trace...did not disappear.

I sagged against my workbench, limp with the release from a tension that had pulled my nerves near the breaking point from the time I first understood what money was and that I didn't have any.

For the first time since I was a very small child, I could imagine what it felt like to believe in the love of God.


	7. Trichophobia: The Fear of Hair

A quiet evening

But the crickets sing

While I comb my hair.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

At that moment, however, I heard someone walking overhead. I froze for a split second, as the document I had read earlier flashed through my mind, but I recovered immediately. "Is someone there?" I called loudly. "Because I have a bottle of nitric acid here, and I'm prepared to use it. Trust me when I say you don't want to find out firsthand what it does to human epidermis."

I picked up the bottle, starting up the stairs slowly and carefully. Thanks to the old and squeaky floorboards, I knew the intruder was in the dining room by the windows. I reached the kitchen, eased myself around the corner, and—.

No one was there.

I searched the house, starting with the chest. Nothing. The living room was unoccupied. I checked the storage space under the built-in seat by the fireplace—someone small could have fit in there. No one. I had just come through the dining room, so I checked the kitchen, the pantry, all the cabinets. I went back to the living room, went through the coat closet under the stairs. Empty of everything save my coat and the vacuum cleaner. I went up the stairs, checked the bathroom, the linen closet, my room, my closet, under the bed. Passing through the tiny sewing alcove, I went through the spare bedroom just as thoroughly. Nothing but dust.

I went back downstairs, wondering at the human imagination. I had heard sounds, of that I was certain, but this was an old house, and it did sometimes creak and make noises. In the fall, when the furnace first went on for the season, one would think the whole house would come crashing down. I had filled my brain with disturbing images, and this was the result.

At any rate, I was going to go upstairs for Friday's financial section, to check the gold prices, and the recycling bin was by the back door. I found the page I wanted, turned to go back down into the basement—and stopped.

I'd bought plums the last time I was at the supermarket. After washing them, I'd put them in a bowl on the counter by the microwave. There were four plump, blue-black fruits in that bowl now, practically bursting with juice. How many had there been when I came home? Four? Or five? I knew I hadn't eaten one, because a good plum is a memorable enjoyment and a bad plum had me flossing my teeth for fifteen minutes, trying to get the stringy bits out of my teeth.

I couldn't remember.

No. I could not, I would not start obsessing like this. I stomped back down to the basement and got out the scales. The unwrapped ingot weighed one hundred and sixty-five grams. The wrapped ingots weighed one hundred and sixty-seven each; allowing two grams for the wrapping, they all weighted the same. Obviously a standard measure.

Looking over the page, I discovered that gold was currently thirty dollars a gram. I could do this sort of math in my head: one hundred sixty-five grams times thirty equaled—four thousand nine hundred seventy-seven. Multiply that by five, and the total was twenty-four thousand eight hundred eighty-five.

Dollars.

Twenty-four thousand eight hundred eighty-five dollars. Possibly more, if these had any collectible value, but that was pure speculation.

I had to sit down. Unfortunately, there were no chairs in the basement, so I hoisted myself up on the washing machine instead, narrowly avoiding a knock on the head from a ceiling beam.

Twenty-four thousand eight hundred eighty-five dollars. That was over ten times what I had paid for the chest, approximately a quarter of my student loan debt, and, after taxes and withholding, more than I was paid this school year. How much easier would that much money make my life? Not having to worry so intensely? Immeasurably.

No. No, no, no, no. This wasn't happening. I was hallucinating. I'd breathed in too much of the fumes from one of my experiments and I was now lying on the basement floor having an extremely vivid wish-fulfillment fantasy. I would wake up in the morning with a splitting headache and lower back pain from lying on cold concrete all night.

Good things, nice surprises, did not happen to me. I took my glasses off and leaned against the concrete wall, turning so my forehead touched the cool, rough surface of the concrete. How hideous it would feel when I realized this was just a dream.

Of course, if this was real, it would be no fairytale. I would have to find an appraiser for not just the gold, but for everything else, then decide how I was going to sell it. The numismatist or the auction house would want a cut, as would the government, no doubt. What with one thing or another, I would be lucky to realize half what the gold was worth. That thought made me feel a bit less light-headed. I sat up again and put on my glasses.

Then I froze. On the stairs, on the first visible step, I saw a bare foot. A small, white, human foot. I sprang off the washing machine, intending to give chase—only to hit my head on that ceiling beam I mentioned earlier. After I recovered from that excruciating pain and found my glasses, which had gone flying, I looked again, and realized that what I saw as a human foot had only been light coming in through the basement window, and a smudge on the riser. It was my imagination again. I thought of burning that document—but I didn't.

I put the loose ingot back in its wrappings as best I could, put it back in the box with the others, and went back upstairs. I had a fireproof lockbox I used for important papers, and I put the box of ingots in with those.

There were still a few things left in the chest, and I went back to exploring. I couldn't remember the last time I'd enjoyed myself so much—oh, I'd had my moments of triumph here and there, like graduating Magna Cum Laude from medical school at twenty-one, but when was the last time I had fun like this?

Or ever?

Now that it was so close to empty, I could remove the pair of two-panel folding screens, which turned out to be pictures of flowers and a stream, with a silver-leaf moon on one and a gold-leaf sun on the other, and get a grip on a long, narrow box that ran nearly the length of the chest.

Weapons. A small dagger, a larger dagger, and a long pole with a short, curving blade at the end. I knew nothing whatever about armaments of any kind, so I had no idea what to call it. Presents for the groom, perhaps? I could see the bottom of the box in places now; the adventure was almost over.

Some wall scroll paintings, landscapes, birds, and flowers—I liked the one with the crow against the snowy landscape the best. Perhaps I would keep it... One with monkeys that reminded me of the senior psych faculty members—all they needed were button-downs and bow-ties, and the resemblance would be complete.

A silk drawstring bag, the next to last item in the box. I unknotted it, looked in, and saw only blackness. Reaching in, I felt some soft fibers.

Which proved to be human hair.

"Ugh!" I dropped both hair and bag the same way one shakes off an unexpected cockroach in a restaurant, with a shudder of revulsion, and wiped my hand on my sweater. Why did I react that way? The hair had felt perfectly clean, and any vermin in it would have been centuries dead by this time. Yet I did not want to touch that black, spidery clot again. It seemed inexpressibly sinister and repulsive.

However, I couldn't leave it lying where it was. Picking up a piece of junk mail, I scooped the loose strands back into the bag, making a mental note to have it analyzed. It hadn't been cut off, because many of the hairs still had roots, and it hadn't been gathered from a brush, because it wasn't matted. It had fallen out in thick hanks. What would make hair fall out by the handfuls?

Chemotherapy, which was out of the question. Exposure to radiation, likewise impossible.

Illness, yes.

And poison.

All sorts of ingested substances make their way into the hair. It would be interesting to see what, if anything, showed up in the test results.

Last box, what a pity—but it was really very late now. After midnight, in fact. This one was about two feet by four feet, not heavy, and sealed with strips of paper. The labels, if that was what they were, had red and black writing on them. I got a pen knife from my desk and slit them.

The lid was reluctant, but it finally came free, and I saw—.

Human bones.

They'd belonged to a small woman, judging from the pelvis and the leg bones.

And the skull grinning up at me had shiny black teeth.


	8. Odontophobia: The Fear of Teeth

An Impasse: He says

it's my fault

because I'm flat-chested.

I think: they'd get bigger

if only

I had a baby.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

Shiny black teeth—The bones themselves did not bother me at all, for they were as clean as any specimen hanging on a stand in a classroom or doctor's office. This wasn't a corpse; it was merely bones. The teeth, though—the teeth were another story. The anonymous author of that document had said that the thing which (if only in his mind) lived in the chest had shiny black teeth.

Those onyx teeth glinted up at me, and I knew what I had to do. My laptop was still a little warm from my earlier research, but I turned it back on anyway and got fresh ice for under it. A few minutes later, I typed 'black teeth women Japan' into the search engine, and hit enter.

Ah. It was a_ cosmetic procedure_!

In Japan, I read, upper-class women stained their teeth black several times a week with a dye brewed from vinegar, iron filings, and crushed oak galls—much the same formula as iron gall ink. The process was called ohaguro. It must have tasted vile, but suffering is apparently necessary to achieve beauty, or why else would women get bikini waxes?

They dyed their teeth black to enhance the whiteness of their skin, because being pale meant they never performed labor out of doors—a status symbol. Every culture has its own standards of beauty which seem strange and repugnant to outsiders, and dyeing their teeth black was theirs. The British abolished the practice when Japan was reopened to foreign trade and influence in the later nineteenth century—probably because they found it unappetizing.

I turned off the computer, went back to the box of bones, and picked up the skull, scrutinizing the teeth. Whether the dye was actually also a miracle dental treatment or whether it was because she lived in an era where refined sugar was rare, she certainly had perfect teeth in terms of not showing signs of wear or decay; the only flaw I saw was a chip in the upper left bicuspid. I wondered what had caused it.

Then I turned my attention to the rest of it. Without the clothing that is flesh, all faces are very much alike. There's no escaping it; we are all ugly underneath. "Did you want to be beautiful, Lady Suzume?" I asked it, tauntingly, to make up for my earlier moment of sentimentality.

_don't we all want to be beautiful?_ asked my interior voice.

"Or did you simply do it to fit in?" _and we __**all **__want to fit in._

I shouldn't be uncharitable toward her. She didn't invent ohaguro, after all. It had been going on for centuries before she was born. I couldn't resist playing Hamlet just for a moment, however.

"Get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her this: let her paint an inch thick, to _this._.. she must come." The words rang hollow in the air; this was the lady, and I was the one who had yet to learn what death was.

Trying again for humor, I remembered a verse from Rudyard Kipling's 'The Vampire':

"A fool there was and he made his prayer/ (Even as you or I!)/ To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair/ (We called her the woman who did not care)/ But the fool he called her his lady fair/(Even as you or I!)"

Looking over at the torn scarlet kimono and the bag of hair, I told the skull, "And that's all you are now, a rag, a bone and a hank of hair. Literally—."

But again, the words fell flat. The empty eye sockets regarded me as if in wide-eyed incomprehension. What was I talking about? it seemed to ask. Suddenly I felt like a boor. "I beg your pardon." I said to it. "You are my benefactress, after all, and I should treat you with more respect."

I put the skull back down in the box. Something was bothering me...

The writer of that document had seen inside the chest. I knew this because he had described the red kimono. Therefore he had to have opened the chest. (_or __something__ opened it_) said my interior voice. (_the lock wasn't locked. How did that happen?_), but I ignored it. I would have sworn he hadn't examined the contents, because of the mere fact that the gold was still there.

Yet he knew about the black teeth…Of course he had also said that the creature had two pairs of eyes, one in the normal place and one in the middle of its forehead, and the skull before me had only one set of eye sockets, located exactly where they should be. No, he couldn't have gotten all the way to the bottom of the chest, looked at the bones, and then put everything back the way he found it, because the box of bones had been sealed on all sides.

Unless he had sealed it, gluing on some paper labels he found in the chest. Perhaps he hadn't found the gold. He might even have rearranged the contents, putting the bones at the bottom, rather than at the top. Of one thing I was sure: no one had simply shoved a dead body in the chest. There was no sign of decomposition, which would have left both indelible stains and intolerable smells. Those bones had been dead long before they were interred in here.

"What happened to you, Lady Suzume?" I thought aloud. "I'm assuming you _are_ Lady Suzume until and unless it's proven otherwise. How did your bones come to be packed in your dowry chest, and how did you end up in Gotham City? And what am I going to do with you?" When one comes across human remains, one is supposed to notify the authorities. But what then? They would take her away, supposedly to run tests on her. But owing to the backlog on more recent corpses, she'd wind up getting shoved on a shelf and forgotten, if I knew anything about the Gotham City Medical Examiner's office.

No. Earlier I had thought of the skeletons one saw in classrooms and doctor's offices. I decided then and there that I would reassemble her skeleton and keep it until such time as I had a permanent classroom or an office of my own. All the bones seemed to be there; it would be something to help pass the time in the long evenings. However, since seeing a human skeleton lying around in the kitchen was liable to disturb the neighbors, I took the box down to the basement for the time being.

Then I went off to bed. It was very late, and tomorrow was likely to prove just as interesting as today had been. It would be Sunday, but this was Gotham City, so I should be able to find a knowledgeable numismatist or appraiser who was open. I would take along the ingot I had unwrapped, not letting on that I had others at home—and I would see if I could make an appointment for someone to come and look at the rest.

For all my physical weariness, my mental state was such that I could not sleep for a long time. I lay there in my bed, looking up at the ceiling. There was a feminine presence in the house now, if only in the form of her belongings, and it had been a long time since there was such a presence in my life.

There had been far too much of a feminine presence in my life when I was young, in my opinion. No father, no uncles, just my Great-Grandmother and me. Grandmother dropped by very rarely, when she was between husbands. Mother I saw only twice; once when I was seven, and at my high school graduation.

My early life was like something out of a Tennessee Williams play or a Truman Capote story; Southern Gothic, seamy, seedy, down-at-the-heels tawdry, impoverished gentility faded and gone either wildly eccentric or thoroughly corrupt. I was born in Georgia, although one can't tell by my accent; I worked hard to get rid of it. People don't believe that a person who talks like a hick can possibly have a brain.

Where was I? I was born in Georgia, in a decaying mansion built by my great-great-however-many greats- grandfather Patrick Keeley, carpetbagger and opportunist that he was. I took after him, actually,—not too tall, dark brown hair, very blue Irish eyes. There was a portrait to prove it hanging in the Long Gallery. He was a handsome man. Handsome, winsome, charming...there I didn't take after him.

I wasn't bad-looking, I knew. I tried on-line dating for a while. I put up my profile and my photograph. A lot of women responded, too. Some of them even said I was quite handsome. But if they didn't lose interest while we were exchanging e-mails, then one meeting in person was enough to turn them off me, somehow. I didn't know what it was about me that was so _wrong_. What made me creepy, chilly, antiseptic, and awkward?

No one had ever loved me.

No one had ever loved me, but I was in love once.

If, that is, one can apply the term 'love' to the complex mix of angst, longing, hope, trepidation and lust which I, a stick-thin, undersized omega male, felt for Sherry Squires, the Queen Bee of our high school, the Alpha female--a Mean Girl, in other words. I was in love with her, and I killed her.

Sherry...In my memory, she was a phenomenal beauty, but upon opening my high school yearbook, I find the photograph over her name is that of a girl who was merely conventionally pretty, and already there were signs that her bloom was at its peak. Those endearing young charms would not have outlasted the first baby, or five years of cashiering at the Winn-Dixie, whichever came first.

Never mind that; it was not her beauty that was important, but the place she occupied in my life. I loved her, and I killed her. It was not murder--it was an accident. The most I would have been charged with would have been involuntary manslaughter.

I did not like to think of that, however.

Turning over in bed, I thought of something else I could do with Lady Suzume's bones. I could do a facial reconstruction, using clay to build up her skull until her features reappeared. That would be interesting, to see what she had looked like.

When I slept, I dreamed I was sitting under a tree with purple flowers, reading a book. A sedan chair passed by on the road into town, and I could see a lady's kimono sleeve hanging out of the window.


	9. Social Phobia: The Fear of Rejection

The old story:

His mother and I

Hate each other.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

I woke up early, and while the water boiled for my tea and oatmeal, I ate a plum and had a cursory look around. Nothing seemed to have changed during the night. No food was missing, the soap was exactly where it should be, and if the living room did look as though a bomb had gone off, scattering Edo-era artifacts around, well, that was the way I had left it the night before.

While I ate, I looked through the Gotham City Yellow Pages. In all truth, I wasn't sure where to take a small gold ingot, if it were better to go to a jeweler's or an expert in Asian antiques rather than a coin dealer's. I settled on the last on the grounds that the ingots had been minted as a medium of exchange rather than as personal adornment or an object d'art. Finding nothing under 'Numismatists', I looked under 'Coin', and found quite a few.

However, they weren't all alike. I skipped over the ones with the flashy, half-page ads which read 'CASH for Gold!!!', and looked for something more conservative. Finally I found one which said 'Lupoff's Coins. Numismatic Supplies. Estate Appraisals. Specializing in Ancient, Medieval, World, and Modern Coins. Serving Gotham City Collectors Since 1970.' The address was in an area which did not suggest pawnshops and payday loans, so I called their number and got a recording. Their hours were Wednesday through Saturday, 10-7, Sundays, 12-4, closed Mondays and Tuesdays. Other hours available by appointment.

Well, that was fine with me. I could make their Sunday hours. In the meantime, I had some papers to grade. I finished breakfast, washed up the dishes, then myself.

Returning to my desk, I got out the latest essays from my Psych 101 class. Teaching wasn't easy these days (if it ever was), and especially not since I had to adhere to University guidelines. I could not accuse any student of plagiarism, not even if I had the book or website at hand and the text was copied word-for-word, because the university could be sued for libel. The most I could do was say that the student's work was 'unoriginal' or 'overly derivative.' And if a student who was getting 'D's unexpectedly turned in an 'A' paper without any other signs of improvement—rather like the one I was reading now—I couldn't accuse them of purchasing it rather than writing it.

The assignment was to compare and contrast the theories of two different psychological schools of thought, in this case Maslow and Skinner. Keri-ann Dalby had turned it in, but she had never written it herself. How did I know? Well, whoever wrote it understood the difference between 'bear' and 'bare'. Besides, she dotted the 'i' in her name with a little heart. Not that that was an issue regarding the format, but it weighed against her.

The more I read, the more I believed I knew who did write it; another of my students, Eric Cogdon. He was an 'A' student, but he and Keri-ann weren't in the same league regarding social status. She was—Well, if I had been reminded of Sherry Squires last night, it was nothing compared to how strongly this situation brought her back to me, because if any of my students was like Sherry, it was Keri-ann, and if any of them was like me, it would probably be Eric. And if what was going on between Keri-ann and Eric was anything like I suspected, then it was exactly like Sherry and me.

I might have been the more intelligent, but Sherry was cleverer. What is the difference? Clever is a raccoon figuring out how to work the latch on a seed bin. Intelligent is a crow devising a tool from a piece of wire to hook a chunk of food it can't reach with its beak.

Sherry was very clever. She didn't bother to study books, not when she could study people. She certainly studied me…

She began small, by simply saying, "Hi, Jonathan." one day as she passed me in the hall. I stammered out a reply as she disappeared around the corner.

"Sherry! What'd you do that for?" asked one of her friends.

I strained to hear her reply, and was surprised to hear her say, "Haven't you ever noticed his eyes? They're so blue." Then they giggled, but it wasn't a nasty giggle. (I think her friends must have been in on it to some degree.)

For a whole week after that, she said "Hi." to me every time she saw me, and in a nice way. She'd cast down her eyes and look at me sideways, with a shy look on her face.

Then one day she came up to me as I was getting my jacket from my locker one afternoon and asked me if I could 'help' her study math and science, her weakest subjects and my strongest. I got the highest marks in math and science in the school, no exaggeration. As she asked, she sent out all the signals, playing with her hair, swinging her knee, biting her lower lip… Of course I said yes, any time she wanted. By that time I would've—I was—well, a little 'help' seemed a small price to pay for her radiant smile.

A little 'help' turned into a lot more help as the weeks and months went past, but somehow I never caught on to what was really going on. I was in love. At first we did have study sessions, where she never actually touched me, but she might let her hair brush my hand when she leaned over to look at a paragraph I was pointing out. When I handed over yet another flawless assignment, she always thanked me, saying something like, "You don't know what this means to me, Jonathan. You're a real friend."

She even asked me if I was planning on going to the prom. I said I hadn't really thought about it. She said I should.

All that flirting, all the teasing, all the gratitude, all the playing came to an end the day I handed over a research paper on Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Yes, by that time I was 'helping' her with English as well. She took it and thanked me, a little coldly, I thought.

Even so, I plunged ahead with what I had rehearsed.

"Sherry, do you remember a few weeks ago? You asked me if I were planning to go to the prom. Well, I thought about it, and I think I could stand it—if you would go with me."

Except I didn't get all the way to the end of that little speech, because she started laughing hysterically, and it was not a nice laugh. "God," she said, when she stopped for breath, "you are just the classic nerd. First of all, Bo is my boyfriend. You know, Bo Griggs?"

Of course I knew Bo Griggs. Everybody knew who Bo Griggs was. He was the quarterback on the football team, and he was also one of my chief tormentors. More than once, he and his buddies soaked my street clothes with urine while I showered after gym.

"—and I was always going to go with him. Second there's—well—you. I mean, look at you. Your glasses are hideous, your clothes look like you stole them off an old scarecrow, and if I had to kiss you, which would only be, like, at gunpoint, I'd throw up."

I would have snatched the paper back from her, only she'd already put it away in her bag. Instead, I did an about-face, knowing my face had gone red, feeling a huge, arid lump forming in my throat and my eyes beginning to burn with tears, I walked away stiffly until I got around the corner of the building and out of her sight. Then I ran. I ran into the woods, and then I threw myself down and I cried. I cried for the death of hope and the death of dreams, the death of an imagined future in which Sherry was my wife and the mother of our children, but mostly I cried for having been a stupid, naive fool.

I stayed home the rest of the week, until Prom Night. I'd left asking her until the last possible moment before I had to buy the tickets; it took me that long to get my courage up. By that time, I knew how to hide from Great-Grandmother; she never knew I was playing truant. During those three days, I came up with a plan and a costume.

The costume took longer to make. Sherry had said I dressed like a scarecrow. Very well, I would be a scarecrow. I made a mask out of an old burlap sack, and a costume out of old clothes, with straw here and there for verisimilitude. Some rabbit's blood made for a few ominous stains--I had an old shotgun that belonged to some ancestor that I used to keep the rabbits and crows out of the vegetable patch and the cornfield, and the bonus was that we got to eat the rabbits. The crows, being more intelligent than most people give them credit for, scattered whenever they saw me coming with it; all I ever got was a few bedraggled feathers.

I also filled the shotgun with rock salt shells. Rock salt stings if it hits someone, but it doesn't kill. That was never part of my plan. I didn't want to kill or injure anyone, not even Bo. All I planned to do was scare them. It was--I was half-insane with heartbreak and humiliation. I know that. If Sherry had turned me down in a nicer way, if she had left me with some dignity or a scrap of my illusions, I never would have done what I did, but I was very young and, yes, very foolish.

My plan was to scare them. I would put on my costume, stake out Bo's car in the school parking lot, wait for them to come out, and then scare them. I wanted to make Bo plead for his life, to humiliate him in front of Sherry, as she had humiliated me.

It all went wrong, very wrong.

I got there early, and I found Bo's car without any problem. He had parked it over in a secluded area of the parking lot, away from other cars, and near enough to a stand of trees that I could hide easily. I didn't have to hide for as long as I expected; they came out over an hour early, and went to his car. I wasn't ready, and while I was scrambling to my feet, I thought I'd missed my chance, but no. Although they'd gotten into his car--into the front seat, mind you, I wasn't so innocent-minded that I didn't know what getting into the back seat meant--they didn't drive away. He started the engine, but they were still just sitting there.

Well, then, so much the better. I reached the car, and rapped on the driver's side window with the shotgun barrel. The only person I immediately saw in the car was Bo, and I thought _Where did Sherry go?_

Then I realized she was there, but her head was down.

In his lap.

And that was why he took a moment longer than he should have to react; he was distracted. But when he saw me, he freaked. He threw the car into gear and made a jack rabbit start. I heard Sherry protest. I raised the shotgun, firing after them, because I was angry and sick at seeing--what I saw. I mean,_ I_ hadn't even dared touch her _hand!_ But since the charge was only salt, it didn't even break a car window.

Then I heard the crash, and once again, I took off running. The last thing I wanted was to be there for a furious Bo to catch up with, and Sherry might put two and two together when she saw a scarecrow. Belated thinking on my part. But oh, the feeling of power I experienced in that moment when Bo looked out, saw me, and was afraid! After all those years, it was sweet. Oh, how sweet it was!

But it turned bitter very swiftly.

The next morning I found out that Bo was in the hospital and Sherry was--dead.

Sherry was dead. I loved her, and I killed her.

That still hurts. Even all these years later.

Well, I could do for Eric Cogdon what no one had done for me. I would sound him out about Keri-ann, and if he blushed or showed me other signs that my intuition was correct, I could gently tell him that gratitude on her part did not equal affection. As for this paper--I finished marking it, and wrote at the end, _A marked improvement. I shall expect to see this carry over onto your test scores_. The way to deal with this sort of cheating was to assign more in-class work where I could supervise what was going on.

I had thought of Kipling's 'The Vampire' last night also. Well, there were some verses at the end which were appropriate now:

So some of him lived but the most of him died--  
(Even as you and I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame  
That stings like a white hot brand.

It's coming to know that she never knew why  
(Seeing at last she could never know why)  
And never could understand.

There will never be a shortage of intelligent young fools, nor of beautiful girls who are more clever.


	10. Aurophobia: The Fear of Gold

The dandelions--

So common

Yet so golden.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

I had expected that Lupoff's Coins would be in a shopping district, but instead the numismatist's was tucked away in a complex of professional offices among doctors, dentists, lawyers, and so on, directly across the street from a post office. However, the coin dealer's door differed from its neighbors, for it had two security cameras keeping track of visitors.

As I approached, two men emerged, one fuming, the other amused. "I told you that drachma had to be a forgery," the amused one said to the other. "I've told you before, Ebay is no place to find—."

"I want to hear what Allerdyce has to say about it." said the angry man.

"He'll tell you the same thing—." The two passed me, and I entered the small foyer. The next door was locked, and it had a small window of safety glass. I pressed a buzzer, and an attractive woman gave me the once-over, evidently decided I was not there to hold them up, and pointed a remote at the door.

"Hello." she said, as I went in. "Welcome to Lupoff's. I'm Helena Lupoff. Would you like to look around, or is there something specific I can help you with?"

I glanced around at the well-lit display cases of coins. There were two doors in the back wall, one of them a vault door. Their stock was large enough and valuable enough that they needed a walk-in safe. A few live orchid plants dotted the room, and the woman herself was well groomed and dressed in a silk blouse and tailored skirt. The impression I had of the dealer's was good: professional, successful, solid.

"No, I don't need to browse, thank you. I am here for a specific reason." I took the ingot out of my inner jacket pocket. "I was hoping that you could identify this and possibly appraise it for me. It is gold, although I don't know what karat. I believe it to be Japanese in origin and at least two hundred years old."

She produced a thick pad of soft grey suede, placing it on the display case between us. "Please, Mr—."

"Doctor, actually. Doctor Jonathan Crane." I put the ingot on the pad.

"Thank you, Doctor Crane." She brought out a large magnifying glass on a stand, and scrutinized my piece, turning it over carefully to examine both sides. "For this, I need to call on my father's expertise. He's in the office. If you would follow me?" She picked up the suede pad and led me behind the counter to the second door in the back wall.

Opening it, she said "Dad? Sorry to disturb you. This is Doctor Crane. Doctor Crane, my father, Saxton Lupoff."

The man behind the desk was moderately obese, but he wore it well. His gingery hair was going silver at the sides and thinning on top, he had a roll of spare flesh between his chin and his neck, and he wore a pale yellow shirt with a geometric patterned tie. He had been examining a tray of coins when we entered. "Pleased to meet you. Won't you have a seat?"

He gestured to a red leather chair, and I sat as his daughter placed Lady Suzume's gold in front of him. "Doctor Crane would like us to identify and appraise this for him. He believes it to be Japanese and not less than two hundred years old."

Lupoff's eyebrows jerked up as he surveyed the bar. "This is certainly unexpected...With your permission, I will begin by assaying it."

At my nod, he took a black leather box from his desk and opened it, revealing a professional's acid test kit, with a square slate tile, acids of varying strength, and gold of several different karats. As I had done the night before, he rubbed the ingot against the stone, and then did the same for the test samples of gold. His entire focus was on his work as he dripped acids first on my sample and then on the control samples, one bottle after another.

Finally he said, "This sample assays between twenty-two and twenty-four karats. It is very nearly pure gold."

I nodded. "I suspected as much."

"Hmmm." he hummed. "If you will give me a moment, I would like to consult some reference materials." I agreed, and for the next several minutes, he paged through books and tapped away at his computer keyboard. He weighed the ingot, looked at both sides, handling it as though it were a live butterfly he did not want to harm.

In the meantime, the door buzzer rang, and his daughter excused herself. I could hear her helping someone in the next room.

Eventually, Lupoff finished, shutting the books and turning the monitor away. He moved the pad to a position exactly halfway between us on his desk, squaring it up precisely.

"Doctor Crane, this is an oban. Although it doesn't look like one, it is indeed a coin. During the time span when obans were minted, Japan was not on the gold standard; it was on the rice standard. The basic unit of measurement was the koku, which was enough rice to feed a man for a year. During lean years, when there was less food, the koku was worth more, and correspondingly in years of plenty, it was not worth as much. One koku of rice was worth one ryo of gold. The oban was worth ten ryo. I am assuming that this information is of interest to you; a man who has earned a doctorate by the age I judge you to be is a man who values learning. Am I correct?"

"Yes." I said. "I want to know as much as you can tell me."

"Then I shall continue. These coins were never in general circulation; no one carried them around in their pockets to pay for a meal, any more than one would carry a thousand dollar bill today, although it would be perfectly legal tender. They were how a shogun paid a general for recapturing a province, or a gift from a prince to a favored courtier. Recieving one of these was not simply a payment. It was an honor.

"You will have noticed these curving grooves; they were an anti-counterfeiting measure. If this were a dipped bar, a bar of base metal which was coated in molten gold, these grooves would not be so sharp or so deep and distinct. The flower stamps were made by the daimyos of each district through which this coin passed; you will notice that each is a little different—one has two leaves, another three, one is missing a few flowers, another has dotted lines. That was proof that the district official in question had examined the bar and verified it to be real.

"The writing in ink is very important; that was the official Treasury signature. If that wore off, the coin had to be returned to the Treasury to be examined and re-verified. Getting it signed again cost money, but without it, the coin was almost invalid. As a result, they were usually wrapped in silk or cotton to prevent the ink from rubbing off."

"I unwrapped it when I came across it." I told him. "I have the wrapping."

"Very good. Now, as to the specifics regarding this particular coin. The gold content varied from minting to minting. This coin was from the 'Chrysanthemum' minting in 1760, I believe; the purest ever struck. It was also thicker than usual; while all obans weighed the same, they were usually six inches long, where this one is closer to four. Fewer than two thousand 'Chrysanthemum' obans were struck off, and only about three hundred are still in existence. Most of those belong to Japanese financial institutions. This is a highly sought-after coin. Here I must ask you a question, Doctor Crane. Where _did_ you come across this?"

"In an antique dowry chest which I bought at an auction yesterday." I explained. "It was among a number of other items from the same era."

"Remarkable." His eyes fastened on me. "I should like to go into this in more detail, but I know you are waiting to hear how much it may sell for. Earlier this year, two obans were sold at a Rotheby's auction here in Gotham City. Unfortunately, the collector who had owned them did not know the significance of the writing on them, and cleaned them off in order to better show off the gold. As a result, their value was reduced. One sold for seven thousand four hundred and ninety dollars, and the other for nine thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Neither was of the 'Chrysanthemum' minting."

"But this oban still has the Treasury signature." I said, knowing he was waiting for me to point that out.

"Yes. The last time a signed oban went up for auction, which was over two years ago, it brought in fifty -one thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars." He watched me closely as that information sank in.

It was a little hard to process, in all truth. I started feeling light-headed, as I had the night before. "So one of them alone is worth more than fifty thousand dollars?"

"One of them alone?" His eyebrows shot up again. "You have more than one?"

I had not meant to give that away, not yet.

"Yes." I admitted.

"How many?"

"I don't want to commit to an answer at this time." I told him.

"More than one more, then," he concluded. I began to think this man could teach me some things about psychology. "This is...extraordinary." HIs shrewd eyes darted an assessing look at me. "Which auction house was it that sold you the chest?"

"It wasn't an auction house at all, actually." I explained how I had gone to the storage space auction, but I didn't tell him about my itching nose. I preferred to let him think I had gotten carried away. Nor did I tell him about the document.

"And so you took it home, got it open, and discovered you had gotten more than your money's worth." he summed up when I had finished. "Such things do happen, now and then. There is a famous anecdote about a young woman who spent five dollars on an old locket at a yard sale, much to the disgust of her mother, only to learn it had been a gift from Napoleon to Josephine during their courtship. I advise you to press Randall and Briggs for the provenance of the chest, especially since you plan to resell it.

"However, you are faced with a decision--which is, how to sell these obans. One way would be to simply sell them to me. It it my guess that they will sell for about sixty thousand dollars each at auction, given the rarity of this striking and the near-mint condition of this piece. I would pay you thirty thousand each, and there your involvement would end. If they don't fetch what I think they will, that is my misfortune. If they sell for more, I would profit from it, and not you.

"Or you could sell them at auction. That would take longer, but you would get a larger share of the proceeds. Rotheby's is the best auction house in Gotham City for items such as these; you could always go to another city, however."

"I would prefer to stay in Gotham." I told him.

"Then your next step would be to fill out an auction estimate request form and wait for them to get back to you. Since you are unknown to them, it will be at least eight weeks before they contact you. You would then bring your item or items to the appropriate department, and they would give you an estimated range of figures which they believe your item will fetch at auction. Assuming you are happy with their estimate and they are happy with what you have to offer, they would then schedule your listing for the next appropriate auction date. Similar items are grouped together--they would offer your obans on a day they are auctioning other coins, not on a day they are offering modern art. It might be some months until the next coin auction."

"I understand."

"Good. Photographs and a description of your listing will be printed in a catalog and posted online at least a month in advance of the auction, so all-in-all, it would take up to six months and no less than four before your items reach the auction block."

Four to six months? By then I could be out on the street looking desparately for a job that didn't involve wearing a paper hat of any kind.

"Or." Lupoff said, and paused.

"Or what?" I inquired.

"You could make use of my knowledge, expertise and contacts. If I make the call, Rotheby's will see you this week. The next coin and stamp auction is in six weeks--a tight squeeze to get you into the catalog, but doable. I would also advance you ten thousand dollars of my own money."

He would want something for this; no one does favors like that for free. "What value would you place on your knowledge, expertise, and ability to make phone calls, Mr. Lupoff?"

"Ten percent of the gross, after the ten thousand is deducted, of course."

That--was not as bad as I was expecting. "What makes you think I would need the loan of ten thousand until then?"

"Two things. First, when you walked in, I said to myself, 'Impoverished grad student in his good interview suit.'"

As it happened, I was wearing my good interview suit, but that he could read me so easily was irking. I asked, "What gives it away?"

"The fit. Grad students never think to have it altered."

"I see." Actually, I hadn't budgeted for tailoring, so I was wearing it off the rack. "And the second reason?"

"When I told you how much the last signed oban went for at auction, you didn't light up with greed, or even with relief. If anything, you looked slightly ill. Fifty thousand dollars was an unreal sum to you. You need not be ashamed, Dr. Crane. When I began this business some thirty-odd years ago, someone helped me over a rough time, financially--the electrician who wired the display room, in fact. He gave me an extra six months before I had to pay him. One repays favors like that forward, not back. Besides, you remind me of me, as I was. There's something about how you speak."

I had noticed that myself, actually. "And if I were to disappear with your ten thousand dollars and my oban?"

"Then I will have been taught a salutary lesson about my ability to read character. But as I am a supreme egotist, I will take that chance."


	11. Vestiphobia: The Fear of Clothing

Even the morning glories

Were more vivid

At my father's house.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

I went home that afternoon in a state of near-euphoria. After depositing Lupoff's check, I stopped by the supermarket, shopping a little more lavishly than was my usual wont. I had to be realistic, after all. Suppose the obans did bring in as much as three hundred thousand at auction?

Ten percent to Lupoff, an unknown percentage to the auction house, and then taxes... I'd have to look up what tax bracket that would launch me into, but I was certain it would be very, very high. I would be lucky to realize two hundred thousand. In Gotham City, that wouldn't buy a house. It wouldn't buy so much as a studio apartment, except maybe in the Narrows, and not even a large one, at that.

I wouldn't be living like a rock star as a result of selling the gold, but I _would_ be out of debt, and I'd have something to fall back upon. Other than my genius, of course. _Out of debt_. What three words were ever more beautiful than that? Out of debt, and free from the desperate, futile anxiety which is living hand-to-mouth. It eats away at the human spirit, having to worry if paying the electric bill will leave one with enough money to eat until the end of the month.

Perhaps I would be able to donate that shell game to a museum, after all. For that matter, I could keep a few of the things from the chest--and the chest itself, why not?--as souvenirs of an adventure and a reminder to myself that once, just once in my life, I'd had a stroke of luck.

Little did I know that more than once in the six weeks before the auction, I would be on the verge of packing everything back in the chest, obans and all, and finding some quiet place to hide it, somewhere far, far from where I lived.

Little did I know--but I was about to find out.

I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and tripped over my other pair of shoes. I had two pairs, a black pair, which I was wearing, and a brown pair, which I had worn yesterday with my khakis. I had left them under the bed as usual last night. I had not put them right in the doorway to trip over. Now I knew it was not just my imagination. There was something in my house.

"Son of a bitch!" I do not normally swear, but there are moments when nothing else will convey the appropriate emotion. It--whatever it was--had gotten at my books. Dozens of them had been taken off the shelves and strewn around the room, in small piles, in large piles, some lying open, most closed. Torn up, ripped apart, desecrated, destroyed? My poor books, dear friends of countless hours--I seized the nearest, riffled through the pages, checked the next, and others. No, not harmed. At least, none that I had found as yet. The pages weren't even dog-eared. It had just unshelved them.

But what else had it done? I thought of the other four obans, which I had locked in a fireproof box I kept for important papers. I'd put it under the kitchen sink, under a box of tools and surrounded by cleaning supplies, on the grounds that since I finally had something worth stealing, I should put it someplace other than under my bed or any of the other clichéd places burglars usually look. The box was still there--I unlocked it, and breathed a sigh of relief. The obans were still there. I took the fifth from my pocket, and put it with the rest.

As I shoved the lock box back into place and straightened up, I heard a noise coming from the cellar door. I whirled in time to see something dark whisk itself down and out of sight. "Ah!" Now I had it; there was no other way out, the door to the outside down there had been stuck for decades. I slammed the door at the top of the stairs, blocked it with a kitchen chair set at an angle, and went for the--long pole thing with the blade at the end. (I was going to have to look up what it was called.)

All right. Perhaps I wasn't thinking very rationally, but as it turned out, I found nothing down there. I poked every shadow, swept under every object with as much as an inch of space between it and the floor, dislodged cobwebs, dead spiders, and somebody's toy car from at least fifty years ago, but I found no creature with black hair all over its body and two pairs of eyes. The only thing with shining black teeth was Lady Suzume's skull.

"Sorry about all the fuss." I apologized to her, and went back upstairs to see what else the thing had done.

Some sort of mental defense mechanism had gone into play in my mind: I knew I was not imagining things. I knew I had not unshelved all of those books, not even if I were suffering from disassociative identity disorder (which I did not believe existed in any event) because not even my darkest alter ego would ever, ever be so disorganized and disrespectful. Whatever it was that was living in the house with me seemed, at least at the moment, to be more afraid of me than I was of it. Since I wasn't insane and I wasn't in danger, everything was all right. Wasn't it?

I began by putting away the groceries, so nothing would spoil while I reshelved the mess in the living room and dining room. While I was doing that, I discovered that there were now only two plums in the bowl; since I had eaten one that morning, that meant it had eaten one. Also, the rest of the tuna fish salad I'd made for lunch was gone, including the plastic container. Where had the creature left the dish and lid? I didn't want the stench of rotting fish permeating the house...Oh, well. In a couple of days, no doubt I'd find it with my nose.

So it ate fruit and fish--and turtle, too, according to the document. It hadn't touched the other obvious items in the refrigerator, like the milk and the cheese, although the cucumber was gone. I'd been out of eggs, which was one of the items I'd brought home. The bread in the cupboard was untouched, the crackers were still there, and the chocolate--it was an omnivore that didn't like dairy or grain products, it seemed. Or--I picked up the box of uncooked rice and shook it. Was there less than there had been a few days ago when I last boiled some up? I couldn't tell. The sugar was all right, but it seemed to me as though some things were out of place in the cabinets.

I closed the last cabinet door and looked around the kitchen for a few moments, thinking. I could borrow a camera with a motion detector from the psych lab at work, aim it at the refrigerator door, and catch in the act--and better still, provide it with something fresher and more interesting than tuna fish. I wasn't about to buy it a turtle, but a few live goldfish were another story.

The next half hour I spent picking up books and putting them back where they belonged. None of them were harmed, to my relief. Curiously enough, most of those it had taken down had illustrations. Perhaps it was looking at the pictures? No, my illustrated books tended to be larger and heavier, and therefore I'd put them on lower shelves. It was a mischievous little thing, whatever it was. Maybe it was a raccoon--there were some around the campus, usually hanging around the dumpsters at the service gate.

Then I went upstairs, and what I found there put an end to that notion. On my bed, neatly folded, lay one of my shirts. Except that I hung my shirts in the closet, on hangers, and I never folded anything like this was folded. Nor did I recall that this particular shirt, a light blue cotton, had a white collar and cuffs. In fact, the collar had a ring no detergent could shift, and the cuffs were fraying. Picking it up, I looked closer, (_all my shirts had been cut apart and then sewn back together_, the document had said) and yes, the collar and cuffs had been replaced, and by hand, but so finely sewn that I had to look at the stitching without my glasses. The reinforcing strips in the collar points were there, the cufflink holes... But where had the white fabric come from?

I checked my closet, prepared to find that everything else had been slashed to ribbons. No; everything else was fine, except that one white shirt was missing. I only wore it in cooler weather, because of the greyish deodorant build-up under the arms. So the creature had gone through my closet, chosen the two worst shirts, and--recycled them? As payment for the food?

I looked at my new-old shirt, and a dim memory of stories Great-Grandmother had told me, when she was more lucid than other times, tales of Old Ireland, of pixies that would do you favors if you set out a bowl of bread and milk for them, and never, never told...

More often she told me about banshees and bannighs, the first a spirit that came to the house of someone who was about to die and wailed. The other was a spirit who looked just like a washerwoman on the banks of a stream, except when someone fated to die got close, he would see her washing a bloody shirt, and then recognize it as his own.

However, this shirt had no blood on it. But could I wear it? I wasn't a particularly materialistic person; I never looked at other men's clothing and envied them. Would this shirt be socially acceptable with contrasting collar and cuffs? I tried to recall, and yes, on racking my brains, I remembered seeing other men in shirts like this, and conservative heterosexuals at that.

Yet now I was confused. What sort of a creature was it? I had been thinking of it as some sort of mutant primate, primitive of brain, not so much brutish as playful, but that did not tally with the minute, careful stitching on this shirt. It must have taken many patient hours to achieve this level of perfection.

Was it possible there had not been one creature in that chest, but two?


	12. Anesthesophobia: The Fear of Anesthesia

I watch the cherry blossoms fall.

Goodbye: I will not live

To taste your fruit.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790

* * *

While I felt calm, and I was calm, I was aware at the same time that my current placid mental state was a mere rubber raft adrift on an ocean of chaos. This was a mental defense mechanism at work, something like a circuit breaker for the brain; I was not prepared to accept the supernatural, so the only thing to do was to act as if everything was completely normal and perhaps the matter would clear up on its own. Consequently, my thoughts and actions over the next several hours, while they seemed to me at the time to be lucid and well-reasoned, were those of a man who was not quite in his right mind.

I made dinner, a simple pasta and chicken dish, and as I cut up tomatoes and chopped basil, I planned my next move. I had a bottle of diethyl ether downstairs, an anesthetic which quickly induced unconsciousness when inhaled. If I could get close enough to the creature to get an ether-soaked cloth over its face…

That, however, would be tricky. How could I distract it sufficiently so it failed to notice me sneaking up on it? With food? I ate my meal, and then put the leftovers in a container just as I had done with the tuna fish, then wrapped and knotted grocery bags around it, so the creature would have to go through several layers to get to its meal. If it was hungry enough, it might come out while I was still awake, if I were busy elsewhere in the house. Where? The basement, where I kept the ether. What would I be doing down there?....Sorting Lady Suzume's bones.

So that was what I did. The human body has approximately two hundred and six bones by the time it reaches maturity; although born with more, some fuse together over the course of development. Some of those bones are extremely small, such as the malleus, the incus, and the stapes, which are located in the ears. I would be extremely surprised to find those at the bottom of the box.

Clearing off my work space, I started laying out the major bones first, taking measurements and making a few notes as I went. Lady Suzume had been approximately four foot ten and was somewhere between the ages of sixteen to thirty when she died; the bone end plates were fully formed, indicating that she had reached her full maturity but not yet started to age significantly. Her pelvic measurements informed me that she had never given birth; parturition causes permanent changes.

She had never suffered a broken bone, a bone disease or a joint ailment, and she had had adequate nutrition during her formative years, although she probably would have benefited from more calcium and protein in her diet. She had tent-shaped nasal bones and a rounded, non-sloping eye orbit shape, which confirmed that she was Asian.

That was about all I could deduce, given the equipment I had on hand. In a proper laboratory, I could have confirmed that she had been born and died before the nuclear era; those born after the development of the atomic bomb and subsequent developments such as nuclear energy have higher residual radiation levels in their bones, no matter where they lived.

I looked at the time; an hour gone. It would be getting dark out now. I spent the better part of another hour sorting out her hands and feet; the hands together have fifty-four bones, the feet, fifty two, meaning they make up over half the bones of the body by number if not by size, and they're all small, fiddly things.

Then I heard a noise from overhead. I got the bottle of ether and a clean towel from the laundry basket, and waited until I heard the refrigerator door open before I tiptoed up the stairs. When I was within three steps from the top, I got the cloth ready, recapped the bottle, and put it away in my shirt pocket.

It is worth pointing out that if one watches enough movies and television or if one reads books, one would get the impression that chloroform is the standard drug of choice for pouring on a handkerchief and then administering to an unsuspecting victim by clapping the saturated cloth over their nose and mouth. However, chloroform is hard to come by for the simple reason that it is highly toxic. The dosage required to knock someone out is dangerously close to the dosage that will kill them. Even should someone survive that, chloroform has unpleasant side effects, such as liver failure, kidney damage, and contact sores on the skin. Ether is much safer and has many legitimate laboratory uses, hence it is easier to come by.

The refrigerator door shut with a muffled thump. I could hear the plastic bags rustling and small noises of frustration as the creature fought to open the container, and then I sprang.

Looking back on this incident, I can now see that I assumed far too much. How did I know it would stay tangible or visible or in place long enough for me to knock it out?

I got only a momentary glimpse of it before I grabbed it and clapped the ether soaked cloth over its face; it was small and dark and indistinct, its face a white blur. Nor do I recall much of the struggle itself. Holding onto it was like trying to hold onto a live eel, if the eel had bony elbows that it hammered into my ribs. It was lightweight; I could pick it up off the floor and hold it so its feet couldn't touch the ground, but it was also surprisingly strong for its size.

Still I held fast to it, even when it snapped its head back into my chin so hard I bit my tongue and saw white for a moment. When would it succumb to the ether? Had the anesthetic gone bad over time? How much longer could I hold on to it?

Had I been thinking more clearly, I would have asked myself: if something can survive two centuries locked in a trunk, how often does it need to breathe—if it breathes at all?

My grip slipped a little; I was feeling lightheaded for some reason. It got its feet down and used the leverage to buck against my chest. Suddenly I felt a cold wet spot spreading outward from my shirt pocket, and I realized that the ether bottle was leaking. Either I hadn't capped it properly, or else it had broken in the struggle. My shirt was soaked in ether. The feeling of dizziness increased—in another moment, I would be the one passing out. I would be unconscious and helpless, and the creature was _right there_.

Too dangerous, too dangerous—I let go and tore at my shirt, trying to get it off and away from me so I didn't inhale any more ether, but it was too late. I lost consciousness.

I came to on the kitchen floor with a pounding headache and a pain in my side that suggested that I'd either hit something on the way down, or the creature took the opportunity to get in a good kick. I didn't know which and I did not, at that moment care. I was alive, which was good, and I did not seem to be bleeding anywhere, nothing seemed to be broken, nor was I missing any body parts, which was even better. But I was suffering an aftereffect of the ether--nausea. And that was very bad.

I got up on my feet and over to the sink before I heaved. Most of it was just stomach juices; dinner was hours ago. In some ways, though, it's worse when there's nothing in one's stomach to bring up, because the abdominal muscles keep _trying_. One can start to imagine that one's stomach will turn inside out and leap up the esophagus. After a while the spasms ceased, and I pulled myself together and went up to collapse into my bed. If the creature didn't kill me while I was lying senseless on the kitchen floor, I doubted it would try while I was asleep. Besides, with the way I felt, it would be a mercy killing.

* * *

Good news for all the Grace and Jay fans: the next chapter of Can't will be posted tomorrow or Thursday.


	13. Kleptophobia: The Fear of Theft

Under the paulownia tree--

Am I now to know the pain of love

Yet never taste the joy?

--Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

I woke up the next morning, headache-free and without a trace of nausea. It's nice to begin one's day on a positive note. A cursory inspection of the house revealed that nothing had changed since the night before. There was, of course, no sign of any creature or creatures...

What had I grappled with in that dark kitchen? In the document, the writer described what he touched in his closet as wet, cold, and covered in hair, like a dead ape. Hairy, yes, I seemed to remember a lot of hair shifting around under my hands, but neither wet nor cold. Nor, for that matter, dead. Even if it didn't breathe, it did not seem dead.

This was not over. I had to find out what it was--but I had to admit, I was not enthused by the idea of tackling it again tonight. What would I use on it, anyway? If I brought home a hypodermic of sedative I'd probably wind up accidentally injecting myself and end up on the kitchen floor again. Once was quite enough for me, thank you.

Besides, after last night it would probably be too skittish.

I put on the recycled shirt, hoping the creature, if it were watching, would take it as a gesture of peace. But was it the creature that had so painstakingly sewed the collar and cuffs from one shirt onto another? Perhaps there were two...entities in the house besides myself, one of them being the creature, and the other--the ghost of Lady Suzume? There was that sewing kit in the chest, after all.

Speaking of the chest, I had put aside a few of the wall scrolls, ones I had particularly liked. There was the crow, of course, but there had been one with two cranes on it. I took it with me, planning to hang it on the wall in the office I shared with two other assistant professors. More than once they had commented on how sterile my area was, free from any personal detritus such as a humorous mug, family photos or pop-culture artifacts. Well, now I had something worth putting up on the wall, something with both artistic merit and personal meaning.

The psychology department's offices were in the Gernsbach Science Center, on the third floor to the right of the main staircase just past a case of moldering stuffed birds from the Amazon rainforests. Four of the species represented were now extinct and seven others were endangered. I have always liked birds; my favorites are the corvidae, more commonly known as the crow family. It encompasses more than just crows, however: magpies, jackdaws, jays, ravens and even more are among its members.

I went in the office and turned on the lights. I was the first in, having left home early for that purpose. I wanted to use my work computer for a few things other than just inputting my grades. First I hung up the scroll painting, admiring the simple elegance of blue-black ink on creamy paper. Hardly more than a line drawing, it showed two cranes on a riverbank, one preening under its wing, the other apparently sleeping with one leg drawn up. A line of script punctuated the scene, more mystery. What did it say? The only spots of color were the crane's red caps and the artist's stamped seal, clever touches.

Enough art appreciation for the moment. I had work to do. I began by looking up the Rotheby's auction house site. A pleasant surprise; this was no fly-by-night operation, but a century-old powerhouse among auctioneers, with branches in major cities all over the globe, the furthest possible thing from the storage space auction. Downloading the estimate request forms, I filled them out and sent them back as an attachment; one for the obans and another for a mixed lot of Asian art and antiques.

After that, I looked up Saxton Lupoff, learning he was modestly famous in the world of coin collecting, which reassured me as much as finding out about Rotheby's. He had a doctorate in metallurgy and an excellent reputation.

Now to do the job I was being paid for, however inadequate that compensation might be. Taking out the papers I had graded the day before, I went through and entered the results. Keri-ann Dalby's B plus brought her flagging D up to a C minus, which made me frown. I couldn't give that paper a lower grade, although I had gone through it with a fine-toothed comb, marking the small things I would have let slide otherwise, such as misplaced commas.

Peeling a sticky note off the pad on my desk, I wrote, _See me after class. Prof. Crane_. on it and firmly affixed it to the first page of Eric Cogdon's paper.

At that moment, my office mate and fellow assistant professor, Melanie Mosser, came in. "Morning, Jon." she said, tossing her purse on her desk and slumping into her chair. She was one of those women who seem to dress for the person they wish they were, rather than the person they are. Her long tiered skirt and ruffled blouse would have looked very good on a tall, willowy woman with Pre-Raphaelite hair and high cheekbones, but Melanie was short, pear-shaped, and had thin, limp hair.

"Good morning." I did not like the automatic assumption in our society that everyone should be on a first-name basis with each other. Perhaps I couldn't stop her from calling me 'Jon', but I took a small personal revenge by never calling her by her first name when I spoke to her.

"How was your week--Hey, did you just put that up?" She stood up and came around to peer at the crane painting. "It's nice--and your name is Crane, too." She smiled as if she just realized it.

"Thank you. I picked it up over the weekend." My e-mail pinged at me: a new message. It was from Randell and Briggs, the antique dealers whose name had been on the label I found with the chest. I had sent them an e-mail on Saturday night, asking about the chest and giving the catalog number on the label.

"And is that a new shirt?" Without giving me a chance to reply, she lit up with glee. "Plus you're not all wound up and prickly--you _met_ somebody, didn't you?"

"Well, in a manner of speaking--." She was distracting me from the e-mail. Yes, Randell and Briggs kept records of every piece they ever sold. If I wanted an official copy of the provenance, I would have to pay a fee, but they could send me an unofficial version as an attachment.

"Who met who?" That was the other person who shared the office, Greg Soucy. He was all right, as long as he didn't speak.

"Jon." Melanie smirked. "Look, he's got on a new shirt, he put up some art, and he's halfway to relaxed."

"No!" Greg said, in mock surprise. Honestly, one would think they were still in high school.

"That state of semi-relaxation is rapidly evaporating thanks to all this unwanted attention." I warned them. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a class to teach." I picked up the pile for my 101 class and headed out the door.

They laughed, of course. I really hate that.

Psych 101 went as usual: whenever I saw or heard an electronic device other than a recorder, I went over with a basket to confiscate it. Seven phones, four PDAs, and two MP3 players were in it by the time class was over. Can they not survive without their wireless teats for an hour and fifteen minutes? Evidently not, because they never seem to learn to put them away.

Afterward, Eric Cogdon slouched up to me as I put away my materials. "You, uh, wanted to see me, Professor?" An unpromising specimen, at least outwardly. Acne vulgaris craters, new and old, pocked his face like the craters of the moon. I had been spared that humiliation.

"Yes. I understand you've been...helping Keri-ann study lately." This was a shot in, if not the dark, at least a shot in the twilight.

"How'd you know?"

"I recognized your...influence in the paper I handed back today."

"Oh. There's nothing wrong with, um, doing some studying together, is there?"

"No, not if the relationship is mutually beneficial. I--What is it, Melanie?"

My co-worker had flung open the lecture room door, "Jon--there was somebody here to see you. He came and went so fast, I only just had time to tell him you would be back in the office in a minute."

"And so?" I asked.

"So he stole that picture off your wall! He took it down and ran, rolling it up as he went!"

"What?" I bolted up the aisle and down the hall. "Which way did he go?"

"Down the main stairs!"

I clattered down the steps, looking for someone with a scroll under their arm, but whoever he was, he had already gotten away. Thoroughly winded, I trudged back up the stairs to the office, where Melanie was wringing her hands.

"Oh, Jon, I'm so sorry. Was it valuable?"

"I'll never know now, will I?" I had made a terrible mistake, bringing that to school. Who knew what I had just lost? Well, the thief did, apparently. "What exactly happened? What did he look like?"

"He was middle-aged, kind of red-faced, like an alcoholic. His nose was--I'd have to call it bulbous." She was describing the man I had been bidding against at the storage space auction! "He came in and said he wanted to see you. I told him you'd be there in a minute or two, because your class was letting out, and could he wait, and all. Then he saw the painting, and he went white, cream cheese white. I thought he was ill--and that's when he grabbed it and ran."

"I see--." My phone rang. "Doctor Crane?" a woman asked. "This is Mitsuoko Harris. I'm the local Asian Art and Antiques expert at Rotheby's. I understand you have some items you would like me to estimate for potential auctioning?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"When would you like to schedule my visit?"

"How soon can it be? Are you free this afternoon, by any chance?" Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I was done by two-thirty in the afternoon.

"Why?" she asked, reasonably enough. "Is there some urgency?"

"Yes. Something just happened to one of the items..." I told her about the theft.

"I see." I heard her shuffling paper around, then the tapping of fingers on a keyboard. "I can clear some time for you after four--if you don't mind the possibility of running over into your dinner hour, or even later."

"Yes, thank you. I wouldn't mind at all. In fact, I would greatly appreciate it." The man, whoever he was, might know where I worked, but he would have his work cut out for him if he tried to burgle it. For one thing, Stickley built his houses solid--and for another, there was the creature. I somehow doubted it would like an intruder.

* * *

A/N: If you like fics that are so far out of the run of the mill that you can't even hear the water, I would like to recommend these: Ernestina, Eris, Equitas by my friend Lasgalendil, who writes like Mozart composed his Requiem, and All The World's A Stage, by Nezzy Rat, who somehow has managed to crack open the Joker's head and let us take a look inside.

Then, after you've read them and desperately need a warm hug to remind you that everything is okay, check out A Psychic Among Gotham Psychos by Beowulfwulf, for an unabashedly romantic story with a heroine who disproves the popular and insulting notion that love is only for the tall, thin and perfect. Plus, I must also say that I am in awe of both Beowulfwulf and Nezzy Rat because they are doing something I can't and will never be able to do: write in a second language. Heck, I'd give at least two of my teeth and a finger just to be able to read Alexander Dumas and Proust in their original language.


	14. Bibliophobia: The Fear of Books

I tremble when I think

of what this book knows

about me.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

The next fifteen minutes were rather crowded. Someone had called Campus Security about the goings-on, so I filed a theft report, adding that my house might be burgled if the suspect knew where I lived. The security head promised to keep a closer watch on the Horseshoe. Greg and Melanie wanted to know more about what I'd bought, but I staved off all their questions by repeating: "It was just a box with some old things from Japan, and the scroll was one of them. I don't want to talk about it until the expert's seen them."

By then it was time for my next class, Statistical Analysis of Behavioral Data, which was usually much more of a pleasure to teach than 101, because those who signed up for it weren't simply there to get the required credits. They were actually interested. But today all I could think about was the man from the auction, the man who had tracked me down. Where was the confidentiality the storage space owner had talked about? It wasn't as if I went around in 'Gotham University' sweatshirts or something. How else had he found out where I worked?

Eventually two-thirty rolled around, and I had errands to run before Mitsuoko Harris arrived after four. After checking in with Security to make sure there hadn't been any suspicious activity, I left the University grounds. There was a strip mall not far from the campus with a pet store and a big-box electronics store, among others, and those were just what I needed.

The first provided me with not just two fat goldfish, one solid orange, the other white with calico-like markings, but the cashier insisted I take the 'Goldie Welcome Home' package, which included an aquatic plant, a snail to eat any algae build-up, a box of fish food, and a bottle of water conditioning drops. I decided not to protest. Explaining that they would probably be eaten within hours would have been just too complicated.

At the electronics store, I bought myself a new laptop, one which was as thin as my grade book and with a battery that was guaranteed to stay at room temperature for at least eight hours of continuous use. A remote camera came with it; I could set up surveillance almost immediately.

When I reached home it was already three forty-five. Unsurprisingly, my shoes were back in front of the door and some of my books were lying around again. It wasn't as bad as yesterday. This time it was only a dozen or so. I picked them up, saying aloud as I did so, "I don't mind you looking at the books, but I wish you'd put them away when you're done. And what is it about the shoes, anyway?"

Nothing replied; I probably would have jumped out of my skin if it did. Nothing from the chest had been touched, I noted with relief.

In the kitchen, I noted that another plum was gone, as were two eggs from the carton. Where was the creature stashing the pits and shells? With the tuna and chicken containers? Nothing had started to smell yet, at least.

Hunting through the cabinets, I found a quart-sized glass mixing bowl, and put it into service as a temporary fishbowl. Every tenant of my house had left a few odds and ends behind, and after nearly a century, there was enough tableware and flatware that I could have set a table for four, provided they weren't fussy about the occasional chip and didn't care that nothing matched.

By the time I had liberated the fish from their plastic bag into the bowl, it was after four, and the doorbell rang. I went to answer it. A few drops of rain had just started to make circles on the ground when I got in, and now it was coming down steadily. A middle aged Asian woman stood on the front porch, shaking her umbrella. She was slim and well dressed in a black suit with a taupe blouse, and she wore round glasses with black wire rims.

"Hello," she said, putting the umbrella to one side and holding out her hand. "I'm Mitsuoko Harris. And you are?"

"Doctor Jonathan Crane." I replied. "I'm sorry, but I'd like to see some ID first."

Her eyebrows went up, but she took out her driver's license and her business card. "Is this adequate?"

"Yes, thank you. Please, won't you come in?"

"Thank you." I stepped aside for her. As she crossed the threshold, she remarked, "You're younger than I expected, then. At first glance, I thought you must be one of the students. Do you mind if I ask you how old you are?"

I did mind, a little, but she had done me a favor by agreeing to come that day, so I said, "I'm twenty-five. People tell me I look younger than I am."

"You do. Well, that makes me feel a little better. You see, I have a son who's turning twenty in a few months, and I thought you were his age. I'm not yet ready to call someone who could be my son, 'Doctor'. These are the items you wanted an estimate on?" She gestured toward the contents of the chest, which I had tidied up a little.

"Yes. Where would you like to start?"

"With the paintings, since one of them was interesting enough to steal. What exactly happened, by the way?"

While we unrolled the scrolls, weighing the ends down carefully with some of my books, I explained about how the man and I had bid against one another, again implying that I had been carried away rather than suffering an allergy attack.

"Since he didn't bid on anything else," I concluded, "I have to assume he went there with foreknowledge of what he was bidding on, but he lost heart when I went higher than he was prepared to go. Afterward, when he tracked me down at my workplace, he lost his head and stole the painting off my wall."

"It is to be hoped that he won't lose anything else." Ms. Harris said, stepping back. "Do you remember if the stolen painting had the same chop, the same signature seal as any of these?" She had put eight of the paintings in a row, and another four off to the side.

The first eight were all by the same artist, and I pointed to those. "Yes. It was the same as those."

"You're certain?"

"Yes. It had two cranes on it, some writing, and that seal."

"Curious...You see, these are not by a professional artist. During the Edo period, a person with any claim to education or culture would have learned how to paint and how to write poetry, just as school curricula today have distribution requirements. The person who painted these had some talent; these are competent--but they're the work of an amateur. This was only a hobby. They're not masterpieces, but that wasn't why she painted them. They're pretty pictures, nothing more. They would make nice gifts for family and friends, perhaps for her admirers as well--."

"Wait a moment. 'She'?" I interrupted.

"Yes. Suzume Murasaki herself painted these. Now look at these four over here, and you'll see the difference. The monkeys are by Mori Sosen; see the texture of the fur? The crow is by Nagasawa Rosetsu. He did wonderful birds. You can practically hear it caw, it's so alive. The landscape is by Ito Jakuchu, as is the rooster--those wide, short brushstrokes should look clumsy, but he painted with more assurance and boldness than Lady Suzume ever could."

I looked. Now that I knew what I was looking at, I could see the difference. Lady Suzume was not in the same class. Ms. Harris went on. "The Murasaki paintings would probably go for two to three hundred dollars each. We don't usually handle anything that small. The Mori Sosen and the Ito Jakuchus will fetch four to six thousand each, and the Nagasawa Rosetsu will fall in between ten to fifteen thousand dollars."

A couple of days ago, I would have been going faint at the thought, but that was before I looked up the tax bracket I was going to be launched into if the obans sold for anything like Lupoff's estimate. Thirty-eight percent of the proceeds would be going straight to the government. That put these sums into perspective.

"I see. But if the painting by Lady Suzume is worth so little compared to these--why would he bother stealing it?" I asked her.

"Perhaps his interest lies in her as a person or a historical figure. Now, moving on to the wedding gown--."

"Wedding gown?" She went over to the red satin kimono embroidered with cranes. "That's a wedding gown? Isn't it very--bright?"

"Yes, it's a wedding gown." She smiled at me. "A Japanese bride at the time would have begun the ceremony in a pure white gown, symbolizing her sorrow at leaving her father's house. White was the color of mourning, funerals and death, but midway through, she would have changed into the red, symbolizing her joy at joining her husband's family. The motifs all have meaning; the cranes symbolize long life and fidelity in marriage--because they mate for life, you see. The pine trees also symbolize long life, and the rocky landscape means endurance. The weeping cherry trees represent what was expected of a woman in marriage--that she be beautiful, pliant, and fruitful." Her tone was slightly sarcastic when she said those last words.

"What about the writing?" I was curious. Lady Suzume's marriage had not been fruitful.

"They're good wishes. 'With Everyone's Blessing', 'Good Fortune', 'Great Happiness', 'Endless Abundance', 'Long Life' and 'Many Children'."

Only I knew how ironic that was. "Since you obviously read Japanese--can you tell me about these?" I had put the scroll I found on the top with the other books.

"Certainly. These are a deluxe set of the Tale of Genji, which one would expect a Murasaki to have, since she was an ancestress. This is a book about the lives of great women; warriors, empresses, saints, and wives."

"Warriors? I'm sorry if I keep echoing what you've said; I know almost nothing about this time period, and I find this fascinating. There were women warriors?"

"That's quite all right. Yes, although that time was largely past. At one time every girl of the Samurai class would have had weapons training, because she might have to be the last line of defense between her children and an invader. Lady Murasaki probably had at least a little training, judging by what I see over there." She pointed to the corner where I had propped up the blades.

"The long pole with the blade is a naginata, the longer dagger is a tonto, and the short one is a kaiken. Given the time period in which she lived, she almost certainly would never have had to use them. The Edo era stretched over two hundred and sixty-five years of peace in almost total isolation from the rest of the world. It was a golden age."

"I never knew...And the other books?" I asked.

"This is one on botany, this one is on childrearing, here's one called 'Instruction to Young Maidens on the Duties of a Good Wife', this one--um, this one is on how to be a good wife in another way."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't look at the pictures?" She held out the open book to me. The woodcuts were extremely explicit. "It was a sex manual for married women, to help them compete with the highly expensive and glamorous professionals of the pleasure quarters. It was much better for the family all around if husbands spent their nights at home. Of course, it also included advice on how to conceive a boy or a girl, if you wanted a specific gender, and a list of things to avoid eating or doing if you wanted to avoid miscarriage."

"One never thinks of other eras as having things like this." I said, closing the book and handing it back to her. Hopefully she couldn't see the flush on my face.

"People's needs don't change, whatever the century. Let's see. This is her diary--'The Pillow Book of Lady Suzume'. It's mostly haiku--her own."

"Really?"

"Yes. She was a better poet than she was a painter. Much better."

"I'd like to have that translated."

"I'm sure you can find someone to do it." She handed the diary to me and unrolled the scroll. "This is--." She faltered.

"What is it?" I asked.

"'A true and accurate account of the life and death of Lady Suzume Murasaki, wife to Lord Minoru Shinnosuke, and how she returned as a ghost to wreak vengeance.' It's handwritten, not printed. Listen to how it begins: 'To the one who reads this; go no further. Replace this in the chest and leave it be.

"It is our hope that the uncouth barbarians of the East India Trading company will receive this as cargo unawares and that her curse shall fall upon those smelly ruffians who lack honor, personal hygiene and table manners.

"Yet I am commanded to set down what is known of the Lady Suzume, as related to us by the eyewitnesses here on Kokomun-to Island who served that lady and her lord, and his lordship's mother. His lordship is now dead, and his mother, and still the Lady Suzume walks at night, crying and shrieking, casting objects around and making the walls run with blood, water and ink. No one knows what she wants, and all efforts to exorcise her have been useless.' Shall I go on?" Ms. Harris asked me.

"Please! But let me put the kettle on for tea."

TBC...


	15. Isolophobia: The Fear of Being Alone

A/N: Okay, I'm playing a little fast and loose with some history in this. Nothing much, though.

* * *

The Scholar of The Paulownia Grove;

His voice is sweeter to me than moon cakes or rice wine.

I sew and listen from behind the screen

I will never say his name, touch his hand, be his wife.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki 1766-1790.

* * *

While the water heated up, I got out a tin of ginger cookies (of which a good handful were missing. My unwanted houseguest must have found them.) cups and saucers and so forth. Then I realized I had a slight problem. I had no sofa and no coffee table.

"I don't often have visitors." I explained. "Please, take the reading chair, and I'll move my desk chair."

"Oh, please don't go to any trouble." Ms. Harris demurred. "Not on my account."

"It's no trouble at all." What to use for a table? This was embarrassing. How much more clear could I make it that I had no significant other, no friends, and no life? In the end I moved the chest and put a towel down on it. It moved easily now that it was empty.

She took a seat while I brought over the tea. "Thank you." she said, accepting a cup. "No, no sugar or lemon. I prefer it plain."

"So do I." I brought out the digital recorder I used to tape my lectures and notes. "Do you mind if I record this for future reference?"

"Go right ahead. Shall I begin at the beginning again, so you have it all?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

She cleared her throat and began. "'A true and accurate account of the life and death of Lady Suzume Murasaki, wife to Lord Minoru Shinnosuke, and how she returned as a ghost to wreak vengeance.'

"To the one who reads this; go no further. Replace this in the chest and leave it be. It is our hope that the uncouth barbarians of the East India Trading company will receive this as cargo unawares and that her curse shall fall upon those smelly ruffians who lack honor, personal hygiene and table manners.

"Yet I am commanded to set down what is known of the Lady Suzume, as related to us by the eyewitnesses here on Kokomun-to Island who served that lady and her lord, and his lordship's mother. His lordship is now dead, and his mother. Yet still the Lady Suzume walks at night, crying and shrieking, casting objects around and making the walls run with blood, water and ink. No one knows what she wants, and all efforts to exorcise her have been useless.'

"Since there are none here who knew her as a child, of her early life I can report only that which is widely known or else gossiped about. She was the second daughter of Lord Murasaki, that great lord whose income was many thousands of koku of rice per year, and whose dominions lay far to the north around Kagu. Being of the Murasaki, her education was therefore no less than that of her brothers, saving only that she was trained to use the naginata and not the katana, but also in the art of the suspended balance, which uses a form of the short chain not often used in Japan. Her knowledge of mathematics was good, she could read and write excellently well, and she was an above average painter in the style known as sumi-e.

"Such was her application to her studies, not only in the masculine sciences but in those softer feminine arts such as playing music upon the koto, flower arranging, sewing and embroidery, the tea ceremony, and the discernment of incense, that when she was to enter the inner household of the shogun at the age of twelve, she was deemed well enough advanced to be appointed as handmaiden to the Lady Tadako-hime, then the betrothed of the heir elect Tokugawa Ienari, now our illustrious Shogun.

"The Lady Tadako-hime, now first wife of the shogun, was then only seven years old, and had been so indulged and petted by the ladies of her former household that she was then well on the way to becoming intractable and was peevish whenever crossed, prone to tantrums. As such behavior was unbecoming in a future consort, the ladies of her new household were chosen with an eye to amending her bad behavior.

"Lady Suzume was placed among them in the hopes that she, being young enough to play with Lady Tadako and enter into her interests, yet old enough to have some sense, should demonstrate by her behavior what was expected of a lady of the inner household. This the Lady Suzume did, and for seven years fulfilled her position with such merit as to be a credit to the Murasaki name.

"The Lady Suzume then being then nineteen and of an age for marriage, the shogun's mother herself (then the Heir elect's mother), delighted with the improvement in her future daughter-in-law's character, declared that she and no other would act as a matchmaker, and in seeking a husband for the handmaiden, found none other than her nephew, Lord Shinnosuke Minoru, her brother's son and heir, who commanded the garrison on Kokumun-to Island, a place with little to recommend it.

"I can say of this place that it is far too humid here. There is only one town of any size, the mosquitoes do not wait for nightfall to attack, but bite whenever they please, there are only two or three fishing villages and the same number of miserable shrines, and although I am no soldier, I cannot see what military significance this rock possesses. I am told, however, that the school here, which prepares young men for the Imperial Examinations, is well thought of, and since there is only one teahouse and one tavern on this island, both a long ways off from it, I suppose it is well located to shield the scholars from distractions.'"

At that point, Ms. Harris paused to take a sip of tea, and I ventured a comment. "The writer certainly seems—idiosyncratic."

"You mean peevish." she replied.

"Being chosen as a handmaiden, I take it that was a great honor?"

"To the future consort? Yes." She quirked an eyebrow. "Not as great as _being_ the future consort, naturally, and _nothing_ at all in comparison to being the shogun's mother—particularly if the shogun was underage. The shogun might have dozens of consorts, concubines, and companions—but he only had one mother. She would have been the most powerful woman in Japan at the time—until the shogun had a son and heir. Then the heir's mother would begin to rise in prominence, as people abandoned the setting sun for the rising one."

"I see. And being connected by marriage to the shogun's mother's family, that would be a great honor also?"

"The Murasakis didn't seem to think so. You see, the shogun's mother might be any woman who managed to conceive the heir—even a commoner. Listen to this." She began to read again.

"'Yet neither Lord Murasaki nor his daughter seemed to recognize the great honor done their house, and some said it was because the Murasakis might have bought everything the Minorus owned, and given it back to them as a gift, and never missed it.

"Yet for all of that, the match was made, the gifts of silk and wine sent, the betrothal gift sent, and the dowry assembled. The shogun's mother added many rich gifts to the dowry, including lengths of silk and fine robes, a mirror of glass imported from the barbarian lands which reflected with miraculous perfection, and seven obans, one for each year Lady Suzume spent in service.

"After the marriage was celebrated in the Shogun's presence, nothing would do but that the new-wed pair must return to Kokomun-to in haste, and many remarked upon it at the time. Also, no servant from her home was to accompany her, not even the maidservant who had attended her since she was a child. It was thought strange and cruel that she should be so cut off from all she knew, and none knew why that should be. Indeed, some said it seemed more like the lady was being sent into exile than that she was going to her new home.

"When she came here to the island, the people here report, she was then a handsome enough girl, of an ordinary height for a woman, neither small nor tall, but her looks would have been improved had she smiled more brightly. Moreover her figure was lacking in that abundance of womanly charms which Lord Minoru was known to admire. Indeed, since where there are servants there are few secrets, he complained to his mother and others that she was not to his taste, being too thin and too serious. He preferred the vulgar flattery of the teahouse waitresses and their noisy boldness to quiet evenings spent at home in the company of his refined wife.

"Although Lady Suzume said nothing, acting outwardly as a proper bride should, Lord Minoru was very likely as little to her taste as a spouse as she was to him. For in her father's house and in the inner household she was accustomed to the conversation of scholars, councilors and ministers of state, and Lord Minoru spoke of little but such sport as could be found or made on the island, of archery and hunting and drinking games with his companions.

"In the first year they were married, he visited her at night several times a week for the first six months, and then several times a month for the next six. Since the servants know all that goes on in their masters' lives, they say that the relations between them were not always successful, and grew less so over time. No children came of their union, much to the grief of Lady Suzume, and his mother was often critical of her new daughter-in-law, for that and many other reasons. Yet Lord Minoru did not divorce her and take a new wife, and no one can account for why he did not.

"For all of that, Lady Suzume behaved as she ought, in word, look and deed. In the second year they were married, however, certain strange events took place. Since there was little else to do upon the island, the Lady took to visiting the shrines, where she spent many hours in meditation and prayer.

"One day when she was doing so, there was a small cat that came up to her, as such creatures will, nuzzling her hand and purring. She immediately conceived an affection for the animal, and learning it belonged to one of the shrine attendants, insisted upon buying it of him. Those servants who accompanied Lady Suzume everywhere say they thought she would even have pulled the ornaments from her hair and offered those, although they were of fine jade and beaten gold, and it was only an ordinary cat, such as are drowned by the dozen every day.

"Because it was not proper for him to sell it, the lady made a large donation to the shrine instead, and he in return made her a gift of the animal. Taking the beast home, she made of it a pet, feeding it tidbits from her bowl and dangling bits of string for it to chase. Her spirits improved, and when it had a litter of five kittens some weeks later, the servants say she was as happy as they had ever seen her. She laughed and grew less pale, so that even her husband noticed the change in her. For four months she bloomed like a flower.

"However, that flower was cruelly cut down one night. Lord Minoru's companions, who were only common soldiers he favored with his friendship, were drinking in the courtyard, bemoaning the lack of diversion. Then they espied the cat and her kittens among the foliage by the fountain.

"On those nights when his Lordship commanded their presence, and there were many such, Lady Suzume would retire early. For that reason, she was not there when they decided to practice their archery, using the cats as targets. On hearing their cries of pain, she woke up and came running out to the courtyard, where she gave a scream of despair so loud she roused all the household. Gathering up her dead pets, she sat on the ground, holding them in her lap and rocking back and forth, weeping and crooning to them while their blood stained her night robe. All the servants saw this, and stood back, not knowing what to do.

"His lordship's mother said, 'She has run mad, and must be confined somewhere.'

"Lady Suzume's head snapped back when she heard this, and she said, in a voice so cold and rational no one could doubt her, 'I am not mad. I am _grieving_. Fetch the gardener.'

"Since she was not known to give many orders, nor yet to speak so plainly, they were astounded, and she repeated, 'Did no one hear me? Fetch the gardener!'

So he was summoned, and she directed him to dig a hole under a cherry tree that grew in the courtyard, and to bury her pets there. That being done, she commanded that water be heated for her bath, although it was the middle of the night. That too was done, and they said she stared at her mother-in-law all the while until it was ready, and that his lordship's mother was discomfited.

"So the Lady Suzume went into the bath, and barred the door behind her. At first they could hear her washing herself before she got into the tub, and then they heard her in the tub, but then she was silent. After some time had passed, his lordship's mother ordered that the door be broken down, and she did so in a small, faint voice that was unlike her.

"What happened then is hearsay, for his lordship's mother called immediately for a physician, and for his lordship to be roused. He was in his cups, and the only one in the house who had not come when his wife screamed. They put it about that the bath was so hot that Lady Suzume fainted and cut her wrist open, and certainly her arm was bandaged, but where she cut it or how no one living knows.

"Lady Suzume was carried to her bed, and those present say they heard his Lordship pleading with her, saying 'Would you kill us all?', and that she cried out something like, 'Am I to have nothing around me that looks at me with love?' His mother, too went in and spoke to her with greater gentleness than she had ever treated her daughter-in-law before, but no one here knows what was said, only the tone of voice she used.

"After that, all the men who had been in the courtyard, those who killed her ladyship's pets and those who only stood and watched, were given ten lashes each with the green bamboo, which cuts the worst. His lordship would have given her a dozen cats, but she refused them, saying that any cat would remind her too much of her lost favorites. So he got her a little dog instead, and she came to be fond of it, although never as much as she was of her cats.

"That, they say, was the only time he showed her any especial regard or affection. Otherwise, he usually ignored her."

TBC.... yes, I know I'm evil...


	16. Necrophobia: The Fear of Death

The mayfly hatched this morning

Dies by nightfall.

Does it fly so blithely despite that? Or because?

Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

Ms. Harris paused for another swallow of tea.

"Ah, her husband—." I began. "I don't pretend to know anything about the dynamics of a marriage in that era, but I would describe him as a brutal, self-centered alcoholic."

"A lot of samurai were." she replied. "Their image has been as romanticized as those of the Arthurian Knights of the Round Table. Like anybody else, they ran the gamut of humanity, from the very good to the very bad. They were highly trained warriors, spending years learning how to fight and kill. In a time of peace such as the Edo period, they had nothing to do. Their primary function was denied them. Some founded martial arts schools, others went into government service—some became gentleman scholars, and studied archaeology or botany, any number of things.

"Others simply became alcoholic brutes who spent their time carousing and ignored their wives."

"I see...How easy would it have been to get a divorce in that time period?"

"For a man? Extremely easy. He could divorce her at any time, for any reason or no reason, although usually it was because of childlessness. All he had to do was write her a letter. A few sentences, and he was free. Oh, he would have to return her dowry—or whatever remained of it. That, there—." she waved a hand at the chest and the treasures which came out of it. "—would only have been a fraction."

Only a fraction? What would the whole dowry have been then? "What about her? How easily would she have been able to divorce him?"

"Not easily at all. A woman had to go to a particular temple and get at least one sandal inside the gate—that was meant literally. She could take her sandal off and throw it, if her husband was pursuing her bodily, and as long as it landed inside, she was entitled to help and protection. Then she would have to remain there for three years straight, without once leaving the grounds, before her marriage would be dissolved by the head priest. Technically she would then be a free woman, but she was expected to become a nun for the rest of her life, never remarrying. Few divorced women remarried in any event, thanks to the stigma attached to it."

"What about infidelity?" I asked.

"What about it? If it was on his part, she had nothing she could say or do. If it was on hers, he could kill her and her lover without fear of reprisal—just as in many other cultures."

"So why didn't he divorce her?" I asked.

"I don't know. Perhaps there is an answer in the rest of this scroll." She lifted it. "Ready for more?"

"Yes."

She began again. "'Some years went by without anything of particular note, save that Lord Minoru visited his wife at night less and less, until in the final years, not at all. Not until the fourth year of their marriage, about eighteen months before she died, did anything change.

"Every month until then, Lady Suzume received a letter from her father and wrote one in reply. Then one month there was no letter, and the next month came a message from her oldest brother that their father had woken one morning unable to move the left side of his body, and in that pitiable state had remained for some days. Then he began to recover, but slowly, and a month later, he still could not move the left side of his face, and he could walk only with difficulty. For some reason, he could neither read nor write any more. So as the heir, he had assumed the responsibility of the head of the family until such time as their father returned to his normal state of health.'"

"It sounds as though he had a stroke." I commented.

"Yes, it does." She glanced at me and nodded before she resumed. "'Lady Suzume was much saddened by the news of her sire's illness, and some say she was also afraid. She pleaded to be allowed to go and see him, prostrating herself before her husband and her mother-in-law, but to no avail. Not long after that, her dog died.

"Just as she had with her cat, she was in the habit of feeding it morsels from her own dish. She would hold up a piece of turtle or fish and it would perform pretty little tricks for her, going up on its hind legs and dancing a few steps, and such antics. One day she tossed it a chunk of food, and it choked on it and died right there in front of her. There are some here who say the dog was poisoned, because of the color of its mouth and tongue, but as many others say it was a natural death, since it was a greedy thing and swallowed the piece whole without chewing it.

"Lady Suzume wept a little, but after it was buried under a maple in the courtyard, she wiped her eyes and said she would have no more pets ever again, because it made her so sad when they died. She did not act as though she were afraid of poison, but after that she began to be a little strange about food. If something were prepared specially for her, she had no appetite for it, and saying that as a childless wife, she was lower even than the scullery maids, and then would not eat until everyone else had been served, taking her food from the common pot—that is, when she ate at all.

"She also began to visit the kitchen in the night, eating whatever she found, but if someone came across her, she did not act guilty or deranged, saying only that she had woken up hungry and did not want to trouble anyone. She picked fruit from the trees, also, and eggs from the nests of birds. Yet if she were confronted, she acted as normal and natural as anyone could."

That habit of secret eating sounded a great deal like my houseguest. Could it be—?

No. certainly not. Ms. Harris took another swallow of tea and continued.

"It was rumored that Lady Suzume might finally be pregnant because of these food cravings, and if that were the case then it could only be that of a secret lover, for Lord Minoru had ceased to visit her at night by then. However, her monthly flux continued uninterrupted. Besides, in that household she could hardly take a breath without someone noting it, much less a lover.

"Around then she also thought of a new diversion, which was sewing for the shrines and also for the children of the poor, a pious and charitable occupation in which the maids and even her mother-in-law joined her. To relieve the tedium, she asked the headmaster of the school if he might not send one of his scholars over in the afternoon, to read to them from the classics, thereby practicing his elocution before an audience and entertaining the women of the household. He entered into that scheme eagerly, as she made the school a substantial donation first, and he liked having a patroness.

"Some wondered if she had done it because one of the scholars was her lover, but there was nothing in such talk, for Lady Suzume never spoke to any of them, always sitting behind a screen as was proper, and her mother-in-law was always at her elbow besides. Anyhow, she cared only for how well the scholars read, for be he ever so handsome, the fellow who spoke poorly would not be asked back, while some of the shabbiest and ill-favored of the lot might read every week, because they had good voices. The scholars were very willing to attend upon the lady, for she would make sure they had a good meal before they had to return to the school.

"Then winter came, and she fell ill. It began as no more than a head cold such as anyone might get, with a headache, sore throat, and stuffy nose. For a week or more she kept to her room, with her head over a steaming basin of water mixed with pine oil and other medicinal herbs, to clear her sinuses, sneezing and blowing her nose, but then when she ought to been getting better, she instead got worse, and her symptoms changed.

"She complained of pain and itching, she said that she could not sleep, and her vision was blurred; that she ran a fever constantly and was always dripping with sweat. Her cheeks and the tips of her fingers grew bright pink, and she was afflicted with tremors. Her limbs swelled. Some days she could not rise from her futon at all, but others she was almost well, especially on windy days. Her moods grew unpredictable, and sometimes she seemed confused and dazed.

"All here say this: that she was not taking poison in either food or drink, for she would not eat unless someone else ate or drank half of what was brought her, in front of her eyes. Her mother-in-law, who oversaw every aspect of Lady Suzume's care, made no objection to this, saying that since her son's wife was ill, her whims were due to the illness and not to her natural inclinations. All said that was a rare show of sympathy and understanding, which did her much credit.

"As winter passed into spring, Lady Suzume's illness deepened. Her hair fell out in great clumps, and layers of her skin peeled away, leaving her raw and sore. Her beauty was destroyed entirely, but she was past caring by then.

"One day in mid-spring, she seemed to have a premonition that she was dying, and she asked for her husband. He came, and was so struck by the change in her that he could not look at her for long, and ordered for a screen to be set in between them. From behind the screen, she said to him, weakly, 'My lord husband, I am dying. Please, I beg your forgiveness for my utter failure to be a good wife to you. I wish that it could have been otherwise. I wish I could have filled your house with sons and made you happy. I am utterly unworthy to be your wife, and therefore I beg you to divorce me. Let me not go to my grave with your name, knowing how unfit I am to bear it. Please—I have only asked one other thing of you, which was that I might see my father again in this life, and that you could not give me. Give me this—write the lines, and put the letter of divorce in my coffin with me, that I—that I.'

"But her voice failed her, and while she fought for breath, he said, 'No, don't talk like that. You were not such a bad wife, after all. Not so bad that I would divorce you on your deathbed.'

"At that she rallied a little, and replied. 'Please—I beg of you, divorce me. Let me die knowing I am free.'

"He refused again, and left, saying the smells of the sickroom made him feel ill. His mother, though came back to the Lady Suzume's side, and said something to her, to which Lady Suzume answered, 'Why do you assume that just because your word is worthless that means mine is, too? It is my triumph that I take it to my grave and beyond. Can you not let me die in peace?'

"His lordship's mother got up at that, and left, telling the maidservants to come and get her 'when it was all over'.

"Lady Suzume lay there in silence for a time, until she said, 'What a waste this business of life is, after all. So miserable and so soon over... I wish I could have heard him read again, though.' She was silent again, and then she said, 'Under the paulownia....the scarecrow.'"

I had been wrapped up so thoroughly in Ms. Harris' voice, in the story, that hearing her say 'scarecrow' came as a visceral shock, like ice breaking under my boot, plunging my foot into freezing water. The scarecrow? What scarecrow?

"She never spoke again, although life lingered in her for another day and a half. She was then a hideous object, raw skin stretched over bones, hardly weighing anything. The untouchables from the village came, washed her body, and put it in a coffin. Thus was the death of Lady Suzume Murasaki. She was twenty-four years old.

"But she was not gone, and that night, the haunting began."

TBC, (yes, again)


	17. Phasmophobia: The Fear of Ghosts

A muted rumble:

Is it distant thunder?

No. My husband's guts.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

"What a terrible death," Ms. Harris lowered the scroll and looked at me, "So young, and with no one there who loved her. Tell me, Doctor, what do you think killed her? Illness or poison?" Her eyes looked wet, as if she were about to cry.

"One possibility springs to mind immediately—some form of cancer. Her symptoms sound very much like those of acute leukemia. However, the same symptoms could apply to a number of other conditions, including heavy metal poisoning." I took a ginger cookie and bit into it. It was still raining, and fat drops spattered against the window behind my guest.

"Heavy metal—like lead and cadmium?" she asked.

"And several others as well. In medicine 'heavy metal' means anything with a relatively high density which is also extremely toxic in low concentrations. Arsenic, mercury, chromium—it's quite a list. They tend to bioaccumulate, which means they build up in the body tissues gradually and the symptoms appear the same way." Those were some of the things I would look for when I had Lady Suzume's hair analyzed. I continued.

"It can be difficult to tell if a poisoning was deliberate or accidental, since these elements occur quite naturally in the Earth's crust. In some areas, the arsenic levels in the soil are so high that if you exhumed and tested the corpses in a cemetary, you'd think you were in an Agatha Christie novel."

She laughed. "Or the lead pipes in Rome." she added, "slowly destroying the Empire."

"Actually, it wasn't the pipes so much as it was the lead glazes used in ceramics manufacturing. Mineral build-up quickly coated the interior of the pipes, preventing lead from getting into the water. Ceramic dishes and cups, however, came into almost constant contact with acidic food or alcoholic beverages, causing the lead to leach out of the glaze into what people ate and drank every single day."

"I didn't know that." She was gratifyingly interested, so I continued.

"Another example: the Mad Hatter in Alice In Wonderland. The reason he was a mad hatter was a mercury solution used in the hat-making process. After prolonged exposure to the mercury, hatters started behaving erratically, irrationally. People thought they had gone insane."

"Mercury!" Ms. Harris sat up and fixed me with her stare. "Maybe you can explain this to me. About five or six years ago, my son's school was shut down for three days so a haz-mat team could clean it up because a student brought in and spilled less than a teaspoon of mercury. Yet when I was in school, I distinctly remember my science teacher breaking a cheap thermometer to show us what mercury was like. He even told us it was poisonous, too, and to be careful with it. We passed that little silvery drop from hand to hand all around the classroom, without gloves, eye protection or face masks, and _nobody_ died because of it. What happened in the intervening thirty years?"

"Our society became a great deal more paranoid and litigious, for one thing. Quicksilver, or liquid metallic mercury, which is the kind used in thermometers, isn't easily absorbed through the skin—or even through ingestion. It was used in medicines for centuries, in topical ointments to treat venereal diseases and in all sorts of oral medications. It becomes dangerous when it's heated. Mercury _vapor_ is extremely toxic when inhaled."

I had always found that very interesting; a medication which could be administered through the air could be very useful in treating the mentally ill, especially those with phobias about needles and pills. Perhaps one day I would develop one.

"Thank you, Doctor Crane. Now I understand. You've cleared up a little mystery for me. Ready to hear about the haunting?"

"If you're willing to translate."

"I wouldn't miss the end of this story for anything." She adjusted the scroll and read, " 'On the day Lady Suzume died, Lord Minoru's mother ordered that her chamber be cleaned and purified, that all the bedding and the tatami on the floors should be taken out and burned and that everything else should be scrubbed and then put in storage. When the maidservants took up the tatami, they found a hiding place under a board near where the Lady Suzume was accustomed to lay her head, and in it they found a handful of dried paulownia blossoms, a small picture she had painted of her cat nursing its kittens, a toy her dog had been wont to play with, and a book written in Lady Suzume's own hand.

Immediately upon finding those things, they took them to Lord Minoru's mother, who instructed them to throw them on the bonfire with everything else, and under no circumstances were they to open the book, an unnecessary precaution, since none of the maidservants are lettered. One of the maids pleaded to be allowed to keep the painting as a remembrance of her young mistress, and—um, _Lady_ Minoru—."

Ms. Harris broke off for a moment. "Nowhere does it give her name, and it's awkward to keep repeating 'Lord Minoru's mother', so from now on, I'll call her Lady Minoru."

"That's fine with me." I replied. "What are tatami, by the way?"

"Mats made of rice straw. They were a luxury floor covering in upper class Japanese homes for centuries, but eventually everybody had them. They smell nice, like meadow grasses."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, where was I? Lady Minoru said the maid could do as she liked with the picture, as long as the book was burned. So the book was cast on the fire, and the serving women went about their business.

"When they returned to lay fresh tatami, however, they found the book was back in its hiding place, without a single singe on the cover. Once again, they went to Lady Minoru to tell her what they had found, and she scolded them for playing jokes at such a solemn time. Then she herself consigned the book to the flames and left, believing that would be the end to it.

"But when they went back to complete their task, the book was again in the place where Lady Suzume had hidden it. This time, Lady Minoru took one look at the book, went chalk-pale, then turned and slapped the face of the woman who had told her of the strange event, accusing her of trying to spread rumors that the room was haunted. No one dared point out that Lady Minoru had watched the pages shrivel and blacken in the fire.

"After a moment of silence, Lady Minoru asked that one of the priests who was keeping the vigil for Lady Suzume might come to the room and advise her on what to do. The priest came, looking as dried up as a salted fish, and listened to the story of the book that would not burn. 'Since the lady's spirit is so set on the book remaining where it is, leave it there for now. Her spirit will depart in forty-nine days to begin its next life, and the book can be destroyed then." Taking out a paper talisman, he wrote certain holy words on it, laid the charm on the book, and put the board back in place.

"As soon as he was out of earshot, Lady Minoru called for a carpenter to fasten the board down in place. Then she went and offered incense again before her late daughter-in-law's coffin, although she had done so before, and remained there for the night, listening to the scriptures which the priests read in turn. Those who saw her said she looked deeply troubled. And that was the first night of the haunting."

"On the second day, the Lady Suzume's coffin was taken to the burial ground with all the ceremony due her rank, and interred there. Lord Minoru took the soul-tablet with the name his late wife would be known by in the afterlife, and later placed it on the family altar. Then he did a terrible, blasphemous thing. He went out hunting, although there were guests in the house, and took with him a bottle of wine, although he knew it was forbidden him for the next twenty days, and he did not cover his head. When he returned some hours later, it was full dark, and his mother met him at the side gate, upbraiding him for his misdeeds.

" 'What!' he replied. 'Suzume-chan never objected to my hunting when she was alive, so I hardly think she will begin now that she is dead!' He laughed, and showed his mother the brace of pheasants he had shot. 'Are they not fine? You know you love a bite of pheasant as much as anyone else, and we shall eat them tomorrow, while they're still fresh.'

" 'You have already broken the stricture against drinking, and now you not only want to break that against eating meat, but that I should do so also? Did you not hear me when I told you her spirit is restive already?'"

" 'I heard you. Why do we have all these priests about the place, if not to lay her to rest? If you don't want any of the pheasant, there will be all the more for me. Good night, Mother.' Giving the birds over to the cook with orders on how they were to be prepared the next day, he went to bed.

"In the middle of the night, the servants here say they heard rustling sounds, as of someone in a silk gown moving very quickly up and down the halls in the night, and in the morning when they went to the reception hall, they found Lord Minoru's pheasants had been brought there from the kitchen and then torn apart with such fury that feathers, bones, and gobbets of meat were all around the room; mashed into the tatami, adhering to the walls and the ceiling, a hideous mess already beginning to stink and drawing flies by the dozen. When Lady Minoru saw what had happened, she fainted, and upon being brought around, cried out to her son that this was his doing, for he had offended his wife's spirit by his lack of respect, and he must go to the priests immediately and ask what he must do to appease her. And that was the second night of haunting.

"The priest did not let Lord Minoru off easily, but made him confess and examine his conscience. When the holy man learned that Lord Minoru had denied his dying wife's last wish, he said that to quiet her spirit, Lord Minoru must write out the letter of divorce forthwith, and then go to her grave to put it in the coffin with her, as she had wanted, even though it meant she would have to be exhumed. Lord Minoru balked and might have refused, except for his mother's entreaties, and at last he agreed. But the weather had changed while they were at the shrine, and the rain came down in a torrent so ferocious that they could not even leave the building, much less go to the cemetery.

"That night, back at the house, the servants said they could hear no rustling because of the rain, but there was a light in the room that Lady Suzume had died in. In the morning, they found ink had been splashed everywhere, as if someone had thrown their inkstone against the walls over and over again. Then that person had taken their finger, dabbed it in the ink, and written 'freedom' on one wall, smearily. That was the third night of the haunting.

"On the fourth day after the Lady Suzume's death, Lord Minoru and his mother went to the cemetery, where with his own hands, the bereaved husband dug up his wife's coffin. The ground had all turned to mud, so it was no little labor to shovel it out, and the walls of the hole collapsed while he tried to dig, but eventually he uncovered her final resting place, and wrenched the lid off.

"The coffin had not been well made; water and mud had leaked in, and the shroud that should have covered her face had shifted. 'She is looking at me!' he cried out. 'I cannot do it, I cannot touch her.'

" 'I can.' said his lady mother, and she got down beside him in the mud. 'Give me the letter.' He did, and she placed it in the hand of the corpse. 'Forgive my foolish, empty-headed son, daughter. Take your divorce and leave us in peace—and if I—if I—I did not always use you with the kindness I should have, and for that I entreat your forgiveness also.'

"Then the coffin lid was nailed back in place, and Lord Minoru piled the mud back into the hole, after which they went home, to hear what Lady Suzume's spirit had wrought in their absence.

"That night the household awoke to the sounds of sobbing in the courtyard, and while they saw nothing, all heard this: 'All of them, all! All my darlings, all dead. Not one spared, not even one! Oh, but it was cruel! The one I named Smudge, he was not quite dead when I reached him. He bit me, because he did not know me in his pain, and then he died in my hand. Not even one left to me! All of them dead! May those who did this die deaths as cruel, yes, and the drunken lout who snored through it all, and the womb that bore him as well.'

Lord Minoru trembled when he heard this, for he knew he was the drunken lout she named, and his mother wept and tore at her clothes. That was the fourth night of haunting.

On the fifth night, the ghost trailed muddy water through the house, and Lord Minoru awoke to find his bedclothes soaked, and his wife lying by his side. Her body was bloated and swollen with the effects of decomposition. 'Am I more to your taste now, my lord husband?' she asked, and wound her arms around his neck. 'Am I plump enough now?' He shrieked and tried to shove her away, but she was too strong for him. She put her dead mouth to his lips, and he swooned dead away.

When the sixth night came (I shall not bother to write down what happened during the days, as it was all to-ing and fro-ing from priests and to priests and such-like.), Lord Minoru and his mother were seated within a circle of priests, all chanting and telling their prayer beads, and around them stood a dozen of the garrison's troops. Suddenly over the droning of sutras, a woman's voice was heard. 'Honored mother of my husband, I think there is not enough incense in the room. Here, take this to burn it in!' And the incense burner, curiously wrought in the form of a dragon, which was part of the Lady Suzume's dowry came crashing down in the center of the circle, scattering hot ashes and coals everywhere. Lady Minoru's face and arm were seared badly, but none of the priests was hurt.

On the seventh night after her death, every priest, every monk, every shrine attendant, anyone with even a pretense of religion was there to repeat the prayers which help the deceased's soul into the next life, and on that night, the Lady Suzume did not walk within the house. She turned instead to the garrison, where the men still lived who had slain her cats.

I really am sorry, but TBC again. (ducks) please don't hit me.


	18. Chiraptophobia:The Fear of Being Touched

A summer afternoon

Among so many butterflies

Is there none who would be my child?

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

(Refers to a belief that butterflies are souls waiting their chance at rebirth)

* * *

Hearing about bird parts mashed into the floor and ink splashed all over the walls, not to mention nocturnal visitations by a muddy but amorous corpse put my experiences with the creature—or Lady Suzume's Ghost, as I now knew her to be—into perspective. I could move my shoes and reshelve books with pleasure if the alternative was adding a mop-up with scrub brush and disinfectant to my morning routine.

"More tea?" I asked Ms. Harris.

"Please." She held out her cup, and I decided to make an educated guess.

"I know about the tooth blackening, but what did women do that made it look as though they had a second pair of eyes in their forehead?" I inquired.

She smiled. "They shaved off their natural eyebrows and then put two thumbprints of black makeup on their foreheads. I have no idea why, but when did fashion ever make sense? The practice went out of fashion by the nineteenth century, as you can see if you look at the bijo prints—those were woodcuts of famous beauties, usually teahouse waitresses, courtesans or geisha and their attendants. No respectable woman would ever pose for a printmaker."

"I see." So that was it; just as the unknown writer had seen a scarlet kimono with white bird wings as a gaping mouth lined with white teeth, he had looked at an oddly made-up woman and seen a monster.

"Ready for more?" She adjusted the scroll again.

"Lead on," I spread my hands.

" First I have to explain about time measurement. Day and night were each divided into six 'hours' that varied in length according to the seasons. Night began at sunset, with the Hour of the Rooster; then came the Hour of the Dog, then the Boar, the Rat, the Ox and the Tiger. The day began at dawn with the Hour of the Hare.

"'This I have heard from several of the soldiers in the garrison; that at the Hour of the Rooster with the changing of the Watch, when the posts are assigned, the officer whose duty it was to keep the records found that beside the names of certain men there was written a word in red ink, and in an unfamiliar hand. At the bottom of the page was written, 'Their Hours Shall Come'. All of those men had this in common: they had been among those who were present when the Lady Suzume's cats were slain. Some had shot the arrows which killed them, and others had only stood around and watched, but all had been whipped for it.

"As there were ten of them, five had been marked with certain hours, beginning with the Hour of the Dog and ending with the hour of the Tiger and the other five had 'Not Yet' written after their names. The records officer did not realize the connection which bound them at the time; all he knew was that someone had marked up his book. So all the men were called out, to answer for who had done it. No one knew, but the incident concerning the cats was spoken of, and talk of how Lady Suzume's ghost haunted the mansion nightly, and the havoc she wreaked there, had made its way from the house to the barracks. So the men whose names were marked looked at one another with no small dread.

"The Hour of the Rooster passed without any other incident. Now there were several posts which had to be manned day and night without cease; the main gate, the signal tower, three places along the cliff high above the harbor, and the look-out to the open sea. Then there was the barracks, where the men spent their time off-duty.

"As it happened, the man whose hour was the Hour of the Dog was assigned that night to the main gate. While on duty he suddenly drew his sword, and, according to the other man at the gate, began making fast short slashes in the air, and then, although it passes all credibility, at his own limbs, yelling all the while, 'Do you not see them? Help! Get them off me! Ah, how they bite!' Yet it was his own sword which he felt, for he cut deep into his own legs, drawing blood. 'Help me! Help me! I cut them and they melt together! Back, monster!' Then he gurgled as though someone were choking him, and staggering around, raised his sword, plunging it deep into his own breast, and died.

"There was, as you can imagine, a great outcry as the remaining soldier on duty summoned aid and related the story, but the officers on duty shouted down the men, saying that he had run mad and killed himself, nothing more.

"The man whose hour was the Hour of the Boar was off-duty. As it happened, he was in the barracks when the hour was called, playing dice with some of his comrades. He was gambling hard; he lost and lost again, then excused himself, saying he had to relieve himself. When he did not come back after half the hour had passed, his friends went to look for him, and found that he had slit his throat. He had left a note which read 'I am sorry. I cannot honor my debts.' Yet the men he played with swore, one and all, that he had not been in debt, that their rule was 'table stakes only', and he had money still in his pouch. So again it seemed like a fit of madness. But the poison had set in, and the men in general were made uneasy, and much talk was made about the ghost of Lady Suzume.

"At the Hour of the Rat, the third and fourth men were on duty together along the harbor cliff wall. They knew of the deaths of the first two, and as the hour progressed, he whose hour it was grew steadily more and more anxious. Finally, when it was shortly before his hour was over, he drew his sword and attacked the man whose hour came after his, shouting, 'If you die before me, then the prophecy is broken and I will be saved!' The other unsheathed his weapon to defend himself, and the two fought, while the other guards, who saw what was happening from afar, rushed from their posts to separate them. In the time it took them to reach the fighters, the man whose hour was that of the Rat struck the man whose hour was that of the Ox in the stomach, drawing blood which looked black in the moonlight, and he cried out in triumph--but too soon, as before he died, the Ox stabbed him in the chest, piercing a lung. The Rat died first, drowning in his own blood, and within a quarter of an hour, so did the other--in the Hour of the Ox.

"The officers, looking around for the man whose hour was the Hour of the Tiger, could not find him. They sent the men who had been off duty to search for him, and they searched for over an hour, until the horizon began to warm in the east. In the first rays of the morning, they found him crumpled at the bottom of the harbor wall underneath the signal tower, his body broken on the rocks. While none saw him die, all say this: that high atop the tower they saw a woman standing, and all swear it was the Lady Suzume. She vanished before anyone could reach her. That was the seventh night of the haunting.

Since Lord Minoru was their commander, and he is conspicuously absent from this account of the events in the garrison, it is to be wondered where he was. Seeing as the lack of respect he had paid on the day of his wife's funeral, and what had come of it, he had given orders that he was in no way to be disturbed during the seventh-day observances of her death, and had spent it among the assembled clergy, along with his mother, who despite her burns had stayed awake and prayed harder than any of the others. As there was no disturbance that night (or so they thought) they greeted the Hour of the Hare with gladness and rejoicing.

Then the news came up from the garrison. Lord Minoru hastened down to give orders and take charge, while his mother threw herself on the floor before the priests, who were preparing to depart. 'Please, I implore you, do not go! What is to be done, how are we to be saved?'

" 'We can do nothing', said the most highly placed among them, 'Do you not recall the other evening? The reason her spirit was able to break our cordon and reach you is because you brought her in with you. You and your son have upon your consciences some unconfessed crime against her, an unexpiated sin. While you harbor that within your hearts, she can in justice pursue you to your deaths.'

" 'You stupid fellow!' Lady Minoru cried out. 'It was not of our will, none of it! Do you not think we would have sent that useless barren wretch back to her father years ago if it were? But it would be death to confess what was done, and death to explain it.'

" 'Then it will be your death whenever she shall choose.' the priest replied, 'for she will not be reborn until she is satisfied, but pursue you to the ends of the earth. I am sorry for you, but I cannot help you.'

"At that moment, the five soldiers remaining of those who had been there when the Lady Suzume's cats were killed came up from the garrison and went to their knees before the priest. 'Oh holy one, tell us how we may escape the Lady Suzume's wrath, I implore you!' said their leader.

" 'How did you provoke her?' asked the priest. The men explained what they had done, and what had happened to their comrades.

" 'That is simple.' the priest replied when they were finished. 'Since your offense was to kill cats, you must make amends by caring for cats. Each of you must find a cat, or better yet, several cats, and care for them so they will stay with you at night, when the Lady Suzume's power is at its height.'

"Two of the men scoffed, and said that it was nonsense, and they would not do it, but the remaining three bowed to the priest. 'But where can we find cats?' one asked.

" 'At the docks where the fishermen clean their catches for salting and drying, in the warehouses where rice and millet are stored, and around the homes of kindhearted people.' the priest replied. 'It will help if you begin by feeding them.'

" 'Thank you, sir!' they chorused, and went down to the town. I have seen and spoken to all three men. One went to the docks, and returned with a battle-scarred old tomcat with shredded ears and only one eye, which he calls 'Demon', the second went to a neighborhood somewhere and came back with a small black and white female which he calls 'Princess', (and I fear he stole or lured away someone's pet to get her) while the third got three kittens from a rice dealer, and has named them 'Wasabi', 'Ginger', and 'Hot-Pot', because of his fondness for those foods, and all three now say they would not part from their pets even if they knew the Lady Suzume would never trouble them again.

"Lord Minoru then returned from the garrison, and his mother told him what the priest had said. 'Never mind, mother,' he comforted her, 'there are other ways. These are but simple priests, used only to dealing with the simple problems of the islanders. I shall send for exorcists and venerated monks from a bigger temple, and although it will be some little while before they can get here, there is a shamaness who can draw the spirits of the dead into her, so they speak with her mouth, and she lives in the woods near a cove on the far side of the island. I will have her brought here at once.'

"That night, at the Hour of the Rooster, one of the two men who would not heed the advice of the priest began to scream that he was hearing things, noises so loud he could not endure them, and before he could be prevented, drew his kaiken and plunged it deep into one of his ears, dying upon the spot. The second man, hearing of this, went to the soldier who had got three kittens 'because they were so small', swearing he would be his bond-slave if he could have but one of the little cats. The other said he would not give him one, but would loan him one for that night, and the next day he should get his own. He, too, lived through the night, and now he has two kittens, 'Winter' and 'Summer'. He is not as fond of them as the others, because they make his eyes water and his nose itch, but he keeps them all the same.

"Thinking to distance himself from the ghost of his dead spouse, Lord Minoru went down to the town to the teahouse he was used to frequent, seeking comfort in the company of the agreeable waitresses who work there. He abstained from both wine and meat in observance of the taboos of mourning, but tea and rice he had in plenty. His favorite among the pretty girls there laid out the bedding in a private room, and excused herself for a moment to make ready. Hearing the sliding door open and close, he called out, 'Is that you, Cio-Cio-chan?'

" 'No', came the reply in a voice he knew well. 'It is I, Suzume.' and the next moment, she was kneeling upon his chest, her hair hanging lank like a curtain around them, her face greenish in death. 'How many of my children went unborn because you spent your strength between the thighs of such as she? Do you not remember the first night? I came to you as innocent as any maid ever went to her marriage bed, and with a virgin heart as well. After you were through with your fumbling and grunting and went to sleep, I stuffed my sleeve in my mouth and wept, not because you had hurt me; I was prepared for that, and the pain was not so bad as I had been told, nor the blood so copious. I wept because I knew even then that it would never get better, and I was right. I could bear it when I thought there might be children, but I soon gave up hope of that. How many children have you fathered, husband?'

" Suzume!'

" 'Answer me!'

"Her hands were on his throat, but he managed to choke out, 'None--none that I have known of, anyway.'

" 'And you never will.' She reached around behind her back to touch him intimately, and when he felt her icy hand upon him, he shriveled.

"That was the eight night of the haunting.'"

* * *

A/N: I swear I never thought Lady Suzume's story would go on this long! Somehow it took on a life of its own It is important to the story overall, however.


	19. Epistemophobia: The Fear of Knowledge

Shall I be missed?

No more than the autumn leaves

When the plum trees bloom again.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

I shifted uneasily in my chair at hearing about Lord Minoru's emasculation, as I believe any man would. He was a porcine boor, but still...

"I wonder why this hasn't been made into a movie yet." Ms. Harris wondered.

"I beg your pardon, but how could it have been made into a movie?" It had been sealed in a trunk for over two hundred years, after all.

"They made lots of the old ghost stories into movies after World War Two. That was during the occupation by the Allied Powers, when the studios couldn't make films that were too political or too topical, so they turned to quiet domestic dramas, like Ozu's films, or monster movies like Godzilla, or period pieces. Ghost stories were guaranteed crowd pleasers, especially when the ghost was a vengeful woman. Women had a lot of reasons to be angry in post-war Japan, and very few outlets for their anger. These movies were a catharsis for them. That's my theory, anyway."

"You think this is simply a story?" I had my own reasons for believing in it, especially the one that raided my kitchen, sewed my shirt, and scattered my books around...I shifted in my chair again, thinking of Lord Minoru—I had laid hands on her last night. I hoped she wasn't holding that against me. But a moment with some ether hardly compared with five years of marital indifference and infidelity, did it?

"I think that chest is real, and I think the things that came out of it are real. Beyond that, I'm not about to commit myself." She lifted the scroll. "Who wrote this? Are they reliable? Did they believe they were recording the truth, or were they making it up as they went along? Or is it a cover-up for something more complicated than a simple domestic murder?"

"I've been wondering that myself." I sat forward. "Some of the statements Lady Minoru made to the priest, like 'It was not of our own will, none of it. It would be death to confess what was done, and death to explain it.' Or what Lord Minoru said after his wife's accident or suicide attempt in the bath, 'Do you mean to kill us all?' And even Lady Suzume herself, on her deathbed, said 'Why do you assume that just because your word is worthless that means mine is, too? It is my triumph that I take it to my grave and beyond.'"

"You have an excellent memory." my guest commented.

"Thank you." It was curious; in the last two days I had met two people whom I liked better than anyone I had met in the last two years: Mitsuoko Harris and Saxton Lupoff—and what was more, they seemed to like me.

But then both had intellectual qualities I respected; superior learning and expertise are both admirable and rare. Most of the people I dealt with were idiots: my students, my colleagues, my so-called superiors...I have never been good at pretending to like people, pretending to care. It rankles with me to have to do so.

"You're welcome. I agree, those statements and other details draw a picture for me; perhaps we can color it in. All of this goes back to the Shogun—or more specifically, his mother—Lord Minoru's aunt and Lady Minoru's sister-in-law."

"What was the Inner Household like?" I asked.

"Imagine a thousand women living together under cramped living conditions—and that number is not an exaggeration. At the top was the Shogun's mother, if she were living; then came the mother of the Heir, if there was an heir. After that came the First Consort, then the lesser consorts and concubines, any of whom might gain in status or lose it, depending upon the Shogun's favor. Then there were female palace officials, including those who were professional voyeurs—they had to listen in during the Shogun's visits to be sure that no concubine extracted promises or favors at a moment when his judgment was unduly influenced. There were ladies-in-waiting and their junior counterparts, the handmaidens, plus maidservants and attendants for all of the above, and finally lesser servants such as the castle's cooks, maids, and anything else you could think of."

"You mean it was a harem," I stated.

"Wrong country," she said with a straight face, "and I don't recall that they employed any eunuchs. It wasn't quite as constricted a life as that of a harem. They could go outdoors, pay visits, go shopping, attend the theatre, visit shrines and temples, have their fortunes told, and enjoy themselves, as long as they got permission. Still, it was a very stressful existence, not at all the languorous fantasy life most people imagine. There were arguments, factionalism, gossip, rumor, backbiting, vicious slander, and more, up to and including murder."

"And living there was supposed to be an honor? It sounds worse than Lady Suzume's married life."

"Strange, isn't it? But she would have been far freer there then she was on Kokomun-to Island. She would have had friends, her family would have been close by, there were places to go and things to do, and most of all, she would have had hope."

_Nor would she have had to put up with the clumsy, if infrequent, embraces of Lord Minoru_, I thought, but I said, "So—there was Lady Suzume, an intelligent young woman—from the description of her education and personality, it doesn't seem too much of a stretch to assume that she _was_ intelligent—living in the Inner Household. She spent seven years working there—What would her duties have been? You said she was a handmaiden to start, but the only duty I can think of would have been the Biblical one, and that hardly seems to apply in this case."

"No, if _that_ was what she was doing, she would have been a concubine. She would have run errands, carried messages, kept secrets, found flowers to go with poems, made sure the future First Consort was always safe, comfortable, and looking her best. Let's see, what else? She would have played music to entertain if that was what was wanted, fanned the princess on humid nights so she could sleep, told stories—."

"I get the idea. So—she spends seven years doing that, and then one day the Shogun's mother—."

"She was only the Heir elect's mother at the time." Ms. Harris corrected me. "The old Shogun was still alive."

"Why do you say, 'Heir elect'? What's the distinction?"

"The Heir elect was not the son of the last Shogun—not by direct line of descent. He would have been adopted."

"More interesting still. So. One day the Heir elect's mother decides she is so pleased with Suzume that she wants her to marry her nephew, who lives a long way away and who occupies the sort of position one reserves for a stupid relative, something that sounds impressive but where they can do little harm—in this case, guarding a humid rock from nothing. In fact, the Heir's mother insists upon Suzume marrying him. Why?"

"Because Lady Suzume learned something or saw something that would keep her son from ever becoming Shogun," Ms. Harris promptly replied. "Suzume gave her word that she would not tell, but the Heir's mother didn't trust her. So she found a safe, controllable husband for her, and gave Lady Suzume a lot of beautiful presents to help sweeten the deal, and sent her off, confident that her sister-in-law and her nephew would never let Suzume off the island."

It took me a moment to recover. People so rarely arrive at the same conclusions I do that it is an event when it happens. "I'm glad," I managed, "that we are on the same page here. Lady Suzume was not a nobody; she had a rich, powerful father who was fond enough of her to keep on writing to her month after month for many years after she was married and had moved away. If she died under suspicious circumstances, he would take offence, which is why her husband and mother-in-law were so upset when she had her 'accident' following the killing of her cats. Therefore, while her father was still healthy, Lady Suzume was safe. It was only after he had his stroke that her dog died strangely and she began to be afraid for her life."

Ms. Harris nodded. "The first attempt at poisoning her went astray; the dog ate the dose that was meant for her. She started to act so strangely about food that they probably didn't want to try a fast-acting poison again, because it would raise people's suspicions. When she caught a cold during the winter, it must have looked like the perfect chance to start poisoning her slowly. A long, lingering illness would look natural—just the kind of thing they could write about to Suzume's brother. 'Your lady sister, my most beloved wife, passed away a week ago. She had been sick for months. My mother and I are inconsolable at her loss, unless you count the fact that I went hunting the day of her funeral and have since been entertained by every 'waitress' in the local teahouse.'"

"Quite." I replied. "Of course, we still don't know the poison used, or the method of delivery, but perhaps that, too, may occur to us."

"If that is my cue to start reading again, lend me your ears." Ms. Harris raised the scroll, and began to read once more.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter, the conclusion of Lady Suzume's story! (Yeah, right, like you haven't heard _that_ before.) And to all my reviewers, an enormous thank-you. I've gotten behind on my replies. I'm sorry.


	20. Antlophobia: The Fear of Floods

"Such fine robes!"

Yes; far too fine.

Better if there were less finery

and instead a finer man.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

" 'It seemed as though the Lady Suzume's touch carried with it some dire contagion, for Lord Minoru sickened immediately, his limbs growing cold and leaden. He was removed from the teahouse by sedan chair and carried home, for he could not sit a horse in his condition. His mother summoned the physician when she learned of his unhappy state, and in the meantime, ordered that stones be heated and wrapped in cloths before being placed around him in hopes of restoring warmth to his body, but he still shook with chills and suffered terrible cramps in his bowels.

"His mother wept over him, for he was her only son. His brothers were all sons of a concubine his father had taken before he ever married and kept all her life, insofar as to say she was his true wife and not Lady Minoru, who he married at the behest of his family, which was why he did not care for his son and heir and lived apart from his wife.

"The physician arrived and upon learning the symptoms, said at once that Lord Minoru's illness was caused by too much contact with the feminine principles, which are cold, wet, and negative, and spend some time compounding medicines to heat his lordship's blood and restore the balance, but when he listened to his patient's chest, he grew pale and drawn, saying 'His heart is shrinking within him; it does not beat strongly enough.'

" 'Suzume!' wept Lady Minoru, 'Let him live, and I shall have you venerated as a saint. I will have shrines built in your honor and pay for prayers to be said for you for a thousand years!'

"But it was day, when ghosts have but little power, and there was no answer. The physician, who had also attended Lady Suzume in her last illness, made bold to say, 'Lady Minoru, you do not need a physician so much as you need an exorcist. The ailments of natural disease I can remedy; that which is caused by ghosts is beyond my pitiful skills.

" 'Go, then you worthless clod!' she railed at him. 'Useless, stupid fool!'

" 'I shall,' he replied coldly, 'and do not think I will forget how patient you were when this "worthless clod" could not cure your daughter-in-law for months, and how upset you are today.'

"She looked at him, and she looked on the verge of death herself, her eyes bloodshot and the skin under them purple as grapes. 'There will be time enough for that hereafter,' she said, the weariness dark in her voice, 'if there shall be a hereafter.'

"The physician then left, but he was troubled in his mind.

"Not long after that, the shamaness arrived, a strange and wild-looking woman who had long white hair, although she was not old, and pale grey eyes, or some said pink, although she was not of a barbarian race. She was nearly blind, and had to be led by her daughter, a child of about six or seven, who was in every wise normal.

"In the courtyard she set up an altar on a low table, which she covered with a white cloth, and then set up four poles of green bamboo around it, with the leaves still on them, and tied a cord around them, stretching it in between to outline a rectangle, tying amulets and folded paper charms into it as she went. She lit incense, and poured clean water into a dish she said was sacred. Then she chanted and danced, shaking a shakujo, or monk staff, with a metal head bearing six rings which chimed and jangled together.

"Finally she spun around, dropping the stick, and fell to her knees. 'I cannot call upon the Lady Suzume. She withholds herself. All I can glean from her is this: What she wants you cannot give her, and she will show you the same mercy and kindness you showed her when she lived.

" 'But this I have seen: all who are under this roof come nightfall shall be dead before the morning.' With that, she and her daughter left, carrying with them all the gear they had brought along. She got no money for her pains, but then she asked for none.

"As could only be expected, there was no keeping the servants after that. One and all, they left, although some of them urged their mistress to come with them, she would not leave. Lord Minoru was too ill to be moved, and the mother outweighed all other instincts in her. She would stay at his side.

"'What could I have done?' she said, as she waited, and the last of the maidservants urged her once again to leave. 'A favor for a favor, and Suzume was such a quiet, stand-offish creature, but it was all slyness underneath, I knew, I saw it. I never liked her, never. All the business with the dog—pretending she believed it was a natural death. It was so difficult to come up with a way after that—there was a barbarian queen who put the poison on fruit while it still hung on the tree, and killed her husband that way. No, anyone might have seen me do that. Suzume might have seen me do that, she was sly—how else would she have learned—no. It is not to be spoken of. The cinnabar, that was simpler. Cinnabar in the incense, and tell the servants she should be left alone. Death in the smoke, but who would have thought she would come back?'

"What happened that night is unknown. In the morning, when they felt brave enough to return, they found the house pulled all apart, the walls stained with blood, muddy water, and ink, as if there had been a great flood above the height of a tall man's head, but every thing in the house was perfectly dry. Lord Minoru was dead, his face contorted as though his last sight was hideous beyond imagining, and when he was turned over, a fluid issued from his nose and mouth, as though he had drowned.

"Lady Minoru was found hanging with her obi around her neck from a rafter in the reception room. Her neck had not broken in the fall, which would have been the more merciful death; instead she had strangled slowly.

"A week later, we arrived in response to Lord Minoru's summons to exorcise the ghost of Lady Suzume, and although he and his mother are dead, we faithfully attempted to do so. With the two who kept her here a prisoner and then murdered her, she should have departed also, but she will not, and the only clue we have are two words she writes over and over, on the floor, on the walls, the ceiling, 'Paulownia', and 'Scarecrow'. What they meant to her, no one knows.

"To that end, our abbot has commanded that her traveling chest, which is made of paulownia wood, should be brought out, and knowing how women are attached to their belongings, that all which was hers that remains should be packed as though for a journey of long duration. Her remains were exhumed, and when the coffin was opened, the decaying flesh was found to have fallen away from her bones, so that they were almost clean.

"The insects and the sun have scoured them further, until now she is more naked than ever she was in life, and we are to place them in a wooden box, on which the Abbot will paste all the most powerful sutras, to bind her to her bones, so whither she may go as a ghost, she must return to them every morning. That too shall go in the box.

"After which, the chest will be delivered to the island which is the only place where the barbarians are permitted to land, so that they might not corrupt our people with either diseases or polluted ideas, and it will go among the cargo they are to pick up next time. When or where or how the Lady Suzume will come to rest, I know not. Women are terrible and pitiful creatures, in death and in life. I am glad I was not born one.

"I end this as I began it: leave this chest and its contents alone. My name, nor that of my abbot or monastery, I must not write, for this touches too much on the matters of those who are powerful, and retribution might follow. I shall write only this—

" 'The Scribe under the Mosquito Netting.' Let that serve for my name. It is as good as any other.

"The End."

When she was finished, Ms. Harris sighed, "Well," and then was silent.

"Cinnabar is mercury ore." I said, as much to break the silence as to impart information. "Adding it to incense would be the same as heating up liquid mercury. It would turn to vapor, and gradually kill anyone who breathed in too much of it."

"Your intuition was correct, then." Ms. Harris rolled up the scroll and set it down on the chest. "She was murdered with a heavy metal poison. But--what happened to her bones?"

I coughed to cover my embarrassment. "Actually..."

A few minutes later, she was looking at Suzume's black-stained teeth. "I'm not sure whether to be fascinated or appalled. What were you planning to do with them?"

"I meant no disrespect." I defended my actions. "but I was planning to turn them into an anatomical display."

"It's a good thing there aren't any ghosts, because if I were Lady Suzume, I would be offended by that." She reached out and picked up the skull. "I wonder how she chipped the tooth?"

"It's funny you should mention ghosts, because ever since I brought this home and opened it, I—my imagination has been running wild on me." My resolve failed me. I did not tell her.

"I don't think that's strange at all," Ms. Harris said. "Not with a skeleton in your basement. I think that would give anyone the heebie-jeebies. Well!" She put the skull down. "This is, beyond a doubt, the most interesting evaluation I have ever done. And it raises the question of—Never mind. I want to think about this first."

After that, the rest of the evening was anticlimactic, to say the least. She and I went through the remaining items, and then she helped me carry most of it upstairs to the second bedroom, for safekeeping. Promising to send me written estimate forms in the morning, she left.

I was alone in the house, or nearly. Or—not at all?

"Suzume?" I called out, standing in the kitchen. The goldfish danced up and down inside their makeshift bowl, but the lady did not answer.


	21. Cibophobia: The Fear of Food

Smiling, I kneel to pour their tea

Wishing I could throw it

In their faces instead.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

After that, I made dinner—beans and rice, as usual, but this time I threw in some corn and chopped onion for variety, and to make it stretch further. Suzume would probably finish off whatever I didn't eat. What was I to do about a ghost with paranoid tendencies, an eating disorder, and probable clinical depression? None of the conventional treatments covered the possibility of a revenant patient.

I cleaned up and went to the cupboard where I kept the plastic containers. Living alone as I did (or had), I didn't need very many of them. All six were there. That meant that after eating the tuna fish yesterday and the chicken the night before, Lady Suzume had washed the containers and put them away, like any considerate, well-brought up person. No doubt she had disposed of the eggshells, fruit pits, etc, in some appropriate manner as well. I took one and scraped the leftovers into it, then stuck it in the refrigerator and started in on the dishes.

It was becoming more and more difficult not to sentimentalize about her, especially since I knew her history. (Or a version of it, at any rate. Her own account might differ markedly.) I could imagine what she had looked like before she was poisoned: a perfect oval face, coolly elegant— seemingly haughty, perhaps, but only because she was on her guard, and rather shy. Beautiful when she smiled, though...A slim figure—What had the writer said? 'Her figure was lacking in that abundance of womanly charms which Lord Minoru was known to admire'? I could guess what that meant. Many men have an infantile bias which keeps breast augmentation specialists in business. Not a practice—or a bias—I've ever subscribed to. After all, a woman isn't a cow—and as a doctor, I knew that time and gravity are unkind to large mammary glands.

I shook the dish towel out and went in the living room. There stood the chest, open and empty. I was now living with the ghost of a woman who had been dead over two hundred years, and she had violent tendencies at times. Perhaps I would be better off if I were to pack everything back in it, and find somewhere to put it, somewhere far away—before she decided to castrate _me_.

But I knew I wouldn't do that.

The evening stretched into the night as I unpacked my new laptop and set it up, only to discover that it wasn't compatible with my old router. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. There is always some issue when upgrading computer equipment: if not the router, then it would be some vital cable that was missing, or else an essential piece of software wouldn't have been installed. So I made a note of what I would need, and turned instead to my books. I looked for anything I might have on Japan and Japanese history, but there my collection was sadly deficient. I would have to remedy that—a visit to the university library tomorrow was in order.

By then it was late enough to go to bed, but before I did, I went down to the basement for one last look at Lady Suzume's skeleton. How, precisely, did being a ghost work? She ate, she sewed, she was ( as I well knew from the night before) solid at least part of the time. She didn't need to breathe very often, if at all, but she could be hurt, if the writer of the document in the envelop was to be believed. He had hit her with a baseball bat, and she had wept. Did her heart beat? How?

"Good night," I said, finally, and went to bed. I don't often self-medicate; that way lies hypochondria, prescription drug addiction, and ultimately, ruin, but I sometimes suffered from insomnia, especially when I was intellectually overstimulated. I certainly was overstimulated tonight. I kept some low dosage sleeping pills, the generic form of Ambien, on hand for such occasions, and I took one before I brushed my teeth.

I slept, and while I did, I had an utterly prosaic and simple dream—ridiculously so—if not for the presence of Lady Suzume. I dreamt that someone climbed into bed with me. It was not an erotic dream; this had the innocence of childhood, or of kittens sleeping together in a basket. Merely warmth, and a peaceful feeling of being safe, of being loved.

When I woke up the next morning, of course I wondered if there was more to it than a dream. Surely having Suzume sleep with me would have been more dramatic, though—or would it?

In the kitchen I found two things: first of all, the goldfish were no longer in the measuring cup. They were swimming around in a large glass punchbowl, another of the left-behind items, along with some gravel I recognized as having come from the garden path in the backyard. The aquatic plant had been rooted in the gravel, and the snail was meandering around on it. The water was sparklingly clean, and the fish looked healthily active.

The second thing was on the counter by the stove: my teapot, wrapped up in towels, sat next to a bowl covered by a plate. The pot was full of hot, fresh green tea, and when I lifted the plate, I saw a very carefully arranged flower made of smoked salmon bits and shreds of spring onion on top of rice which had been cooked until it went to paste. I could not be certain, but I was willing to believe that this was very close to what might have been eaten for breakfast in a noble household during the Edo period.

I don't normally drink green tea for breakfast, and while I _had_ been planning to have the smoked salmon and spring onions, I would have put them in some scrambled eggs rather than over rice, but I knew better than to dump this out and start over. This was a friendly gesture, and Suzume would have been offended if I rejected it. Anyhow, it turned out to be surprisingly good.

* * *

A/N: Short, I know. Sometimes they are.


	22. Gerontophobia: The Fear of the Elderly

This frost has scarred all the new buds;

Can it not kill the spring longings in me?

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

(Spring longings were a well-known euphemism for sexual desires.)

* * *

Before I left the house to go to work, I went back upstairs for something—another Ambien pill. I wasn't going to take it myself, not at that time of day. I had a plan in which that pill played a vital role, and I needed it with me if I were going to carry it out. Putting it in a plastic sandwich bag, I went off across the campus.

My next surprise of the day came when I checked my mailbox in the Psych department's central office: there was a very familiar looking scroll. I unrolled it cautiously. Yes, it was mine. There were the two cranes, and Suzume's signature—and a piece of paper, rolled up with it, which drifted to the floor.

Picking it up, I read:

_Dear Doctor Crane;_

_I hope you will forgive me. There is no possible excuse I can make which would justify what I did. It was the action of a man whose common sense was momentarily overcome by the strength of his emotions. If I cannot excuse myself, I hope I may have the opportunity to explain myself to you. Indeed, I am most eager to make your acquaintance, not least to have the pleasure of hearing how you learned of the Lady Suzume, and to pool our knowledge of her history. My phone number is at the top of the page. Please call me at your earliest convenience._

_Yours truly,_

_Alasdair Kemp, Departmental Lecturer in Japanese History, Oxbridge University._

I regarded the note with some misgivings. A lecturer in Japanese History from Oxbridge University, the oldest university in Great Britain, had come all the way to Gotham City in pursuit of that chest, and then had been so overwhelmed that he stole a scroll picture off my wall?

I was going to have to look him up online before I believed that.

Rather than putting the scroll back up on the wall, I put it away in my desk, before any visiting Harvard professors could come by and decide to abscond with it, and so I wouldn't have to explain to either Melanie or Greg, the colleagues with whom I shared the office, how it had magically reappeared. It just wouldn't be worth the effort.

Those two aforementioned persons straggled in as usual, and then came another of the morning's surprises. I got a phone call from Rotheby's. This time it was the head of the Coins and Stamps division, and he wanted to know how soon I could come in with my obans, adding that I could not possibly come in too soon—and that there were other matters to discuss concerning the items Ms. Harris had estimated the previous night.

"I—let me see." I looked at the time at the bottom of my computer screen. Quarter to ten. My first class on Tuesday wasn't until noon, but then I had a night class to teach from seven to nine-thirty, Psych 101 for Continuing Ed students—a much more mature group than the Monday-Wednesday-Friday class. Could I make it that morning? "Not—Just a moment."

I lowered the phone. "I have a personal matter I need to take care of. Which one of you can cover my Cognitive Psych from noon to one-thirty today?"

"That's my lunch hour," Melanie demurred.

"Sorry. That's my only planning period." refused Greg.

"So neither of you can do it?" I looked from one to the other, and started to raise the phone. Then I thought better of it. "No. We each get three personal days a year, and I haven't used any of mine yet. Melanie, you used up yours before November, and since then you've been calling in sick whenever you wanted a 'mental health' day, and I haven't said anything about it. You, Greg, have been late at least once a week since the school year began, leaving either Melanie or I to open your first period classes, and I haven't complained about that either. So today _I_ am taking care of a personal matter. I'm leaving now. I hope to be back for my two o'clock Personality class, but if for some reason I can't make it, I'll call. See you later."

I lifted the phone back up, and told the division head, "I should be there by ten-thirty, if that's convenient."

"Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you, Dr. Crane."

"You're very welcome." I hung up and went home to collect the box of obans.

Getting downtown to Rotheby's Gotham office was not a problem, thanks to the subway system. I found the building without any difficulty, and it was there that I had the most unpleasant surprise of the day.

My grandmother was talking to the receptionist. This was not the woman who raised me: that was my _great_-grandmother Keeny. This was her daughter, Marion—Curtis? That was her married name the last time we had spoken, a week before I left for college, when I called to tell her that I could no longer take care of Great-grandmother, who could no longer take care of herself.

"Nonsense." Grandmother Marion snapped. "_She_ took care of _you_; now it's _your_ duty to take care of _her_."

"I would be able to take care of her better with a college degree," I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking. I was afraid of her, but then, who _wasn't_ I afraid of in those days? "I have a scholarship. I'm not asking for anything for myself," (because I knew I wouldn't get it) "but that you should do your part in taking care of her. She's suffering from Alzheimer's now."

"No." The answer was flat and vehement.

I had a counterargument. "Then it will have to be the county home. If I have to call them, I'd have to tell them who the next of kin is— namely, you. Then when the papers get wind of the news—."

"Stop." As flat and vehement as her first answer. "What do you expect me to do?"

"Twilight Acres Nursing Home has vacancies. I've spoken to the director. The rates start at—," I reeled off the list. "If you wire them the money and fax them a consent form, I can take her there tomorrow."

"Very well."

That was the end of it. Cold, perhaps? Consider this: when I was born there in that decaying mansion to my unwed teenage mother, with my great-grandmother there to midwife while she castigated my mother for her many sins, Grandmother Marion told Great-grandmother to bury me out back in the compost heap with the rest of the garbage. Alive.

How do I know that? By listening in. Grandmother Marion visited whenever she was between marriages and needed a place to lick her wounds. One night, long after I was supposed to be asleep, I was hiding on the upstairs landing, where all the sounds in the house coalesced into audibility, and I overheard Great-grandmother say, "Do you remember—?" and launched into a graphic description of my birth.

"Yes."

"I'm glad I didn't." I nearly fell over when I heard that. Never before had Great-grandmother expressed any gladness over my existence at all. Was she fond of me, underneath it all? Did she maybe even love me, but didn't know how to show it?

No such luck. "Despite the fact that he's an idle dreamer, and if I didn't take my cane to his shoulders, his nose would always be down in a book, he does work—when he's forced to. He puts food on this table. Which is more than _you've_ ever done."

I identified a _great_ deal with Suzume's familial difficulties.

I did not want to encounter my grandmother right at the moment that I had three hundred thousand dollars worth of collectible antique Japanese coins in my pocket. Or under any circumstances, ever. I hadn't even known she was in Gotham City.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dove." said the harassed receptionist. "but you don't have an appointment. I'm afraid there's no one who can see you right now. If you had called in advance—." So she was 'Mrs. Dove' now. My grandmother had a habit of marrying unwisely. The men were always rich, but when they insisted on pre-nups, she never had her own lawyer look at the papers before she signed.

"I _did_ call in advance, you little fool." As snappish as a Yorkshire terrier, that was my grandmother. She realized her error. "I'm sorry. It's the change of life, you know—well, you can't be more than twenty, so you _don't_ know. It plays havoc on my nerves. If you could just ask one of those _nice_ young men from the Gems and Jewelry Division to step out here for a _tiny_ second so I can show them what I've brought..." She was the reincarnation of Blanche Dubois, from A Streetcar Named Desire, only in designer pumps and a pink linen suit.

"Mrs. Dove?" A man in a neatly tailored navy suit whose body language and build still said 'Private Security' stepped forward. "I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave."

"But—." she tried.

"Ma'am, you were very lucky that Rotheby's decided not to sue you. You are, however, banned from these premises. Do you want to leave voluntarily or shall I call for assistance?"

"You—." My grandmother spat out a word I didn't even know she knew, spun on her heel, and stormed right past me without recognizing me.

I breathed a sigh of relief and stepped up to the receptionist's desk. "Hello. I'm Doctor Crane. I have a ten-thirty appointment with Mr. Shwartz of the Coins and Stamps Division."

"Ah, Dr. Crane!" came a familiar voice from behind a newspaper in the corner of the room. Saxton Lupoff folded the section and set it aside as he stood up. "So nice to see you again. Mr. Shwartz asked me to join in on this meeting today. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," I said, with perfect honesty. "The pleasure is mine, sir."

The receptionist smiled upon us like a sunbeam. "Down the hall and to your left, sir. First door on the right after that—but of course _you_ know the way, Mr. Lupoff."

Together Lupoff and I breached the first realm from which I had firsthand knowledge that my grandmother was banned.


	23. Allodoxophobia: The Fear of Opinions

That time again;

My womb bleeds,

My heart breaks.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

The offices of Rotheby's looked more or less exactly as I expected: quietly affluent, well appointed, like a gentlemen's club of the sort which involves chess and quiet afternoons rather than strippers and champagne. Mr. Schwartz himself looked as though he would be right at home in such an atmosphere. About sixty years old, he wore glasses, and (I was pleased to see) a blue shirt with a white collar and cuffs, just like the one Suzume had altered and which I had worn yesterday. He had unruly eyebrows which were as thick as wooly bear caterpillars.

I sat directly before his desk, while Lupoff sat to one side of it, facing me. Ms. Harris was hovering around in the background, saying little but observing everything.

"Incredible," Mr. Schwartz murmured. "They're real." He put the oban he was inspecting back in its wrapper, shaking his head in amazement as he did so.

"When have I ever led you astray?" Lupoff chaffed him amiably. "Or been so led astray myself?" The two men had obviously known and respected each other a long time.

"Oh, I never doubted you," retorted Schwartz. "I thought I might have misheard 'oban' when you said 'koban'."

On seeing my expression, Lupoff explained, " 'Koban' was another word for 'ryo', the gold coin worth one tenth of an oban. They're much more common."

"Nobody finds a secret stash of near-extremely fine condition obans in their wrappers with the treasury signatures intact—not in Gotham City, at any rate. And yet you did." He looked over his glasses at me. "Dr. Crane, as the head of Rotheby's Coins and Stamps Division, I would like to say: yes, we are extremely interested in acting as your auction house. What sort of price range did he quote you?"

"Sixty thousand each," I replied.

"Piker," Schwartz sneered at Lupoff. "A lowball figure if I ever heard one."

"The last signed oban to be auctioned in Gotham City sold for fifty-one thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars. Given the passage of time and the higher gold content, an increase of slightly less than twenty percent is not a lowball figure." Lupoff replied with dignity.

"The last signed oban was a Manen minting weighing only one hundred and twelve grams and approximately fourteen karat gold." Schwartz retorted. "Compared to the Chrysanthemum minting, it was underweight and sickly. Eighty to a hundred thousand each is my estimate range—and those are conservative numbers."

Remembering that I would have to pay their commission fees, not to mention Lupoff's percentage and taxes, I could stay cool and collected at his astonishing prediction. "That sounds acceptable," I said. "I would be very glad to have you list my obans for auction—and if possible, I would like to house them with you until then. I'm certain your facility is much better prepared to store them than my home is."

"We have our own vaults on the premises." Schwartz assured me, "and we're fully bonded and insured. Now, since you're new to the world of auctions, let me explain our commission fees so there will be no misunderstandings later. As you are the seller, we will charge you five percent of the selling price. It will be your responsibility to pay any and all taxes due on that amount..."

While he explained, an assistant printed out a contract and brought it over for me to read.

"Speaking of misunderstandings," I said while looking over the pages, "when I arrived, there was a Mrs. Dove in the lobby who was being asked to leave. Might I ask what prompted that, or is it confidential? She's a family acquaintance," (Technically true. We were family, and we were barely acquainted.) " and I know her slightly, although I haven't seen or spoken to her in nearly ten years. Back then she was 'Mrs. Curtis'."

"It is a matter of public record," Schwartz said, after a momentary pause, "so I can tell you. Mrs. Dove sold items through us from time to time for the last thirty years, mainly jewelry. A little over a year ago, after Mr. Dove passed away, she brought us a number of pieces to be auctioned off, some of which were not hers to sell. Mr. Dove had been married before, and he had granddaughters to whom he wanted to pass certain items. As they are too young to wear such important pieces, he made a proviso that Mrs. Dove could enjoy the use of them until the girls came of age, but that she could not sell, pawn, give away or otherwise dispose of them.

"Unfortunately, Rotheby's did not learn of this until after the sale, and consequently suffered a great loss, not only of money, but also of face, as we had to reclaim the items for the Dove estate. As a result, Mrs. Dove is no longer welcome here."

"I see. Do you know if Mrs. Dove is in financial straits? My grandmother would be distressed if she knew of it." Very true, as she _was_ my grandmother.

"It is my understanding that Mr. Dove set up trust funds which provide her with a very generous income, much more than enough to live on, but not enough for her to live as she would like to. As with the jewels, there is substantial real estate both in Gotham City and abroad which she can use for her lifetime, but not dispose of—including a yacht and a villa in Tuscany." Mr. Schwartz said carefully. "Mr. Dove was very fond of his wife, but he had no illusions about her spending habits."

"So the problem is uncontrolled expenditure, not actual need." I extrapolated.

"Exactly."

So Grandmother had finally got what she wanted—a very rich, indulgent man who died and left her well-off, and it wasn't enough. I doubted any fortune would ever be enough, not even if she married the Wayne heir. She was in her early sixties now; husbands who met her standards would be more difficult to find. I signed the contracts.

"Thank you, Dr. Crane. If I may?" At my nod, he took the box of obans and handed them over to his assistant. "Take these down to Photography, and tell them if they destroy the wrappings or deface the writing on them, I'll tear strips off their hides. And tell Layout to clear the cover. I want to put these on them. When they're done, take these right to the vault."

He turned back to me. "Now, as to the catalog. The usual attribution of ownership is 'From the collection of a Gentleman'—or Lady, as the case may be, unless the seller is someone whose name would add luster to the item. 'From the private coin collection of Saxton Lupoff' would create a great deal of interest within the community."

"Not while I have a pulse." responded that gentleman serenely.

"—and of course celebrities and royalty also generate interest, although not always of the kind one would wish."

"Your usual wording will be fine," I decided, "although the collection in question has only existed since Saturday."

"That does not matter." Schwartz assured me. "I will be very interested to see what you might find in the future, Dr. Crane, given the impressive start you are making."

"It was pure chance, nothing more." I shrugged off any praise. "A stroke of luck."

"Perhaps." He smiled enigmatically. "But of such beginnings sometimes great things come. You may prove to have a nose for this. But now Ms. Harris has something she would like to discuss."

"Yes." Coming out of the background for the first time, she moved her seat up. "The next auction of Asian Art and Antiques is six months away. Certainly, Rotheby's can list your items then, but I think that, if properly managed, the correct publicity would increase your potential take by several times over. As it is, you'd realize about seventy to ninety thousand, but if people knew the full story—."

I interrupted her. "If you mean you want to publicize the story of how I found the chest, I would prefer not to play that up. As I said, it was pure dumb luck, like winning the lottery or being struck by lightning. I don't want to be a little news feature on AOL for people to click on before they look at the latest Oscar fashions. If I'm going to be famous, I would much prefer it to be for an actual achievement, something I worked for. Something that isn't stupid."

"What I have in mind isn't stupid at all," she smiled confidently. "And it will involve work on your part. The only story more incredible than how you acquired the chest is the story that was _in_ the chest. _Suzume's_ story. I want to tell it to the world."


	24. Molysmophobia: The Fear of Contamination

This year, the apricots

Grow small and bitter

So too, my heart.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

What Ms. Harris had in mind was that the scroll with the 'true and accurate account' of Suzume's life, death and afterlife should be translated and turned into a book. Or possibly several books, both fiction and non-fiction. The book of her poetry would be translated and printed as well.

After that, "You mentioned that you were thinking of donating the shell game to a museum. I think that is an excellent idea, but I want to carry it a step further. I propose that you should loan everything except the obans to a museum for a special exhibition." She went on to outline plans for a guest curatorship for me, a trip to Japan to investigate further, including a trip to Kokomun-to Island. After the exhibition was over, then Rotheby's would auction off whatever I wanted to sell, for much higher amounts than the items would have fetched otherwise.

It was an ambitious plan, but it would also be a major commitment on my part—and the auction itself would be put off for over a year or more. I told the three of them, Lupoff, Schwartz, and Harris, that I would have to think about it. We made our goodbyes, and I left.

It was barely past noon; I was theoretically free until two, so I made two stops before I went back to the University. The first was at a large chain bookstore, where I bought a book on everyday life in Edo Japan and a Japanese-English dictionary, and the second was at Cimarron-Verona, a high-end kitchen store which carried not only fancy cookware, but some gourmet food items.

While it was not the sort of place I usually shopped, I knew from getting their mail-order catalog that they carried a particular item I would need if I were to carry out the plan involving the Ambien I had in my pocket: glazed apricots. Made by simmering dried apricots in a sugar syrup until they plumped up again, they were strongly flavored and intensely sweet—the better to mask the taste of a powdered pill. I would have preferred to put it in something like chocolate, but Suzume hadn't touched what I had on hand, probably because she didn't know what it was. She did eat fruit, however, which was why I had thought of the apricots. I purchased a box and caught the subway back to the school.

I walked in my office door at 1:07 to find Melanie eating lunch at her desk, some kind of salad with oily dressing. "Mmph." She sat up straighter and waved her fork at me before swallowing. "It's okay. We flipped a coin, and Greg's covering you. Did everything turn out all right?"

"Yes, it did, thank you. Since I'm back, I suppose I should relieve him." I said, more because I thought I should than because I had any desire to do so.

"Why bother? There's only about twenty minutes to go." She took a forkful of salad and crunched while I put my purchases away in my desk. The scroll painting of the cranes was still there, and the note from Alasdair Kemp.

I took the note out and smoothed it flat. 'Alasdair Kemp' was a very British name, and supposedly he was on the faculty of Oxbridge... "By the way—did the thief have an accent of any kind?"

"Yes, he did, actually. He sounded a lot like Ian Mckellan—veddy, veddy British." She said in a put-on voice. Dropping the fake accent, she asked, "Why? Was that what today was about?"

"Tangentially." I said, looking up Oxbridge University on line, then clicking on their Humanities Department, then on the faculty list, and finally on Alasdair Kemp himself. There was a photograph of him on his page, and unless someone had hacked the University website to make a substitution, this was the same man against whom I had bid on Saturday. The page also informed me that he was on sabbatical this semester, which accounted for his presence in Gotham City.

I looked at the note. Should I call him then, or wait?

I decided to wait. Instead I took a metal teaspoon and went to a restroom, where I used it to crush the Ambien without taking it from the plastic bag, so as not to lose any of the powder. The pill I used was not the extented release sort, and crushing it like this would shorten its effective power--but it would take effect much more quickly and strongly than if taken normally. It would hit fast and hit hard, if it hit at all. Putting the bag back in my pocket, I went off to get ready for my two o'clock class.

At four-thirty, I went back to the office, knowing I would have it to myself at that time of day. I took out the box of apricots and unwrapped them. As I recalled, this size package had two rows of apricots running the length of the box, and the apricots had been pitted but not sliced in half, meaning there was a hole in each piece, turning it into a natural little pouch. I took the top apricot from each row and set them aside, then took out the bag of pulverized sleeping pill and, opening the next apricot at the hole, carefully tapped half the powder into it. Then I did the same for the apricot which was now at the top of the other row. The confections looked and smelled appealing. Who could resist bright golden-orange apricots that smelled like a hundred sunny days? Not Suzume, I hoped. This was a long shot, I knew. She might not be affected at all by the drug--or she might detect it and get angry. The powdered pill was pale yellow, and the moist flesh of the apricots absorbed and disguised it. I replaced the top apricots, closed up the box, and went home, taking my newly purchased books and the scroll along with me as well.

When I got home, the first thing I did was go to the kitchen, where the goldfish were as lively as they had been that morning. On the counter next to them were some pictures carefully torn from a supermarket advertising supplement, the kind that came with the paper. Several were pictures of fruit, several were vegetables, and the rest were fish. It took me only a moment to realize what I was looking at.

It was a shopping list.

Leaving my purchases on the counter, I went upstairs for a brief shower. The towel and tub seemed wetter than they should have for that time of day--had she bathed in my absence? The inescapable fact that one must be naked in order to bathe did not leave me unmoved, and the concomitant thoughts prompted me to turn the water several degrees colder than I normally liked, as I tried to drive the heat from my flesh. I did not want to dwell on the pictures in that manual, or what Suzume had said of her wedding night. It would be as obscene as her husband using her body but never reaching her... I had to turn the hot water all the way off in the end.

Then I discovered she had recycled another of my shirts. I had to wonder if she darned socks as well...but I also felt a certain pang of guilt. What had she done that I should drug her and coerce her to come out where I could see her? Could I not learn to live with this quiet presence?

No. I couldn't. I had to know. I had to see her.

I still had over an hour and a half until my evening class began, so I had dinner, then sat down and read the book on life in Edo Japan for a while. While I read, I ate the top two apricots, the ones directly over the drugged pair. When that was done, I closed the box, washed my hands, and went off to teach my evening class. Never had two and a half hours passed so slowly. In fact, I was sorely tempted to rush things along and end class early, so I could rush home and see...if there was anything to see. However, I controlled my impulses and finished at the normal time.

It took fifteen minutes to get across campus from the building where the evening class convened to my home on the Horseshoe, and every my step tingled with anticipation. Had it worked? Would she be there? Or if it hadn't, would she be angry? I took my keys out when I was still three houses away, holding them so the unnecessary ones didn't jingle. When I stepped on the porch, I went out of my way to avoid the squeaky boards. The key slid home into the lock almost without a sound, but to my ears, the noise of the tumblers turning was like the roll of thunder.

It took me a caution century to open the door, another one to edge inside. I always left a living room light on when I had a night class, so as not to come back in the complete dark.

There. Curled up on the floor, among several of my books, was a small form, dressed in something white. I approached with a cat's stealthy tread, holding my breath. It had long black hair. It was female, and Asian--but then a grey ditchwater feeling sluiced through me, like the eighth day of rain in a row, when I realized she was not Suzume. This was some kind of hoax after all, probably set up by Alasdair Kemp. He'd managed to find someone the right size, gender and race--but his double came up short in a painfully obvious way.

She was too young, ridiculously young, in fact. Hardly out of girlhood, by the look of her. I guessed that she was about fourteen at the most, and I would have believed she was twelve. Her face still had the softness of immaturity, with a wide, milky brow, for all that she had shaven her eyebrows and marked her forehead with thumbprints. Her chin was small and pointed, like a kitten's, and she had a look of dewy, supernal innocence about her. This was not the face of a twenty-four year old woman who had suffered through a hideous marriage and mercury poisoning. Moreover, she looked so--ordinary. She was more pretty than lovely, and frankly more cute than pretty. No, this was a flesh and blood girl, not a ghost.

Suddenly furious, I picked up the phone and called the police.

* * *

A/N: Okay, I have to admit I DIDN'T test the powdered Ambien in glazed apricots. I surmised it, which is a fancy way of saying I made it up. And the line about darning socks comes from one of my readers--you know who you are!


	25. Policophobia: The Fear of Police

The two most awkward silences:

When no one gets the joke

and when his manhood refuses to rise.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

As a psychologist, I have few peers. Even those colleagues who don't like me personally admit that. As a social being, however, when interacting with others on a personal basis—honesty forces me to admit I have certain shortcomings. For example, calling the police that night was one of the most unintelligent decisions I had ever made, eclipsed only by the night I dressed up as a scarecrow to confront Sherry and Bo after the prom.

I had naively believed the police would listen politely to my tale of finding things misplaced and food missing for several days, which led me to put a sleeping pill in some apricots in a successful effort to catch the person responsible, and then discreetly cart my uninvited guest off to wherever they took such criminals. Instead…

"Uh-huh," said the female police officer. She was moderately tall and about my age, with short reddish hair and hazel green eyes. Under other circumstances I might have found her attractive, but not when she was eyeing me with such hard skepticism. "That's what you say. What I see here is a girl who looks way underage, drugged and unconscious in the living room of a man who, I have to say, pushes my 'creep' buttons."

The male officer, who was of mixed race and had a lot of dark brown freckles on his light brown face, was checking the girl's vital signs. "Her pulse is okay, but I don't like her breathing. You want I should call a bus for her?" He looked to his partner.

"A bus?" I snapped, unwisely. "Why on earth would you call for a bus for her?"

"By 'bus', we mean an ambulance," explained the female officer as if I were dimwitted.

At that moment even I had my doubts about my mental capacity—or at least my common sense. If she were underage—and she certainly looked it—she could claim I had done practically anything to her, and it wouldn't matter that the charges were false and unprovable. I knew how these things went. Filth sticks. My teaching career would be over, and possibly my future in medicine as well.

I felt dizzy. What had I done?

"How bad is her breathing?" the female police officer asked her partner.

"Marginal," he said.

"What'd you give her?" She shifted her attention back to me.

"Five milligrams of Ambien. It's a small dose!" I defended myself.

"Small for you, maybe, but you weigh about fifty pounds more than she does. Don't call the bus yet, Mike. You got any ice?"

It took me a split second to realize she was addressing me again. "Of course. In the freezer. I'll get—."

"Uh-uh," she said, "I'll get it and you'll stay here where Mike can keep an eye on you." She disappeared in the direction of my kitchen, and I was left alone with Mike and the slumbering girl.

Mike straightened up and rose to his feet. "So," he said, neutrally, "you say you've never seen her before and you don't know how she got here and you don't know who she is." It was a statement, but there was an implicit question in it.

"That's correct." I replied stiffly, covering my panic with the coldest formality I could muster. I heard ice chink into a glass container out in the kitchen.

"Then where's her shoes?" He pointed to the girl's soft, callous-free bare feet. "Because she didn't just, like, beam down from off some spaceship into your living room, and she couldn't have walked far with bare feet like that. Her hair's damp, too, like she took a shower an hour or two ago. You still want to tell me she doesn't live here?"

I was saved from making any number of unfortunate remarks by the return of the female officer, who had a bowl of ice cubes. "Nice goldfish," she commented. "Okay, if this doesn't bring her out of it, we call the bus. If it does, she rides down with us in the patrol car. Either way, you earned yourself a trip to the precinct house, Doc-tor Crane." She drew out my name contemptuously.

Perhaps they would let me go upstairs alone for a moment before they hauled me away. If I could only cut my throat with Suzume's kaiken...

It would be much quicker and less painful than facing the consequences.

Kneeling down by the girl's side, she took a couple of pieces of ice from the bowl in one hand while she lifted the girl's arm with the other. The sleeve of the girl's white garment slid down her arm, leaving it bare, and the officer dropped the ice into the hollow of her armpit, immediately dropping the arm.

The effect was instantaneous. Her eyes flew open and she reared up with an ear-splitting shriek of protest. "Works like a charm," said the female officer with satisfaction. "Looks like it's the car for both of you."

The girl, meanwhile was cowering in abject terror while trying to shake the cubes out of her sleeve. She whispered something incomprehensible as she shot apprehensive glances from one face to another.

"She's sure scared of you." said the male officer, sounding cheerful about it. "What's your name, honey? How'd you get here?"

I won't attempt to reproduce what she said in reply, but the basic gist of it was perfectly clear. She understood him no better than we understood her, and she was frightened.

"I think that's Japanese she's speaking," speculated the female officer. "It sure sounds like what they toss around behind the counter of this sushi bar I know. Ummm—Boyer Susannah-san," she said, pointing to her own chest. Pointing to her partner, she enunciated clearly, "Ogilvy Michael-san." Then she pointed to the girl, nodding and giving her an encouraging look.

"Murasaki O-Suzume-sama," said the girl. She had been coached and prompted in her role, of course. Amazing that she was staying in character, even under these circumstances.

"Why'd you put our last names first?" asked her partner, as the girl let out a long spate of questions in Japanese.

"Cause that's how they do it there. Her name's Suzume Murasaki. Sorry, kid, that's about all the Japanese I know. Now, who is he?" Officer Susannah Boyer pointed at me.

"Eh?" asked the girl.

"Boyer-san, Ogilvy-san, Murasaki-san—." The officer pointed at each of us in turn.

"Murasaki-sama," the girl corrected her. Awake, she did not look quite as young and vulnerable as she did while she was sleeping, but she did not look old enough to be Suzume.

"Okay, Boyer-san, Ogilvy-san, Murasaki-sama, and—." She pointed at me.

"Sensei?" the girl ventured.

"And that's one of the few other words I know. Sensei means 'teacher' or 'master', and you're a professor here, aren't you? You're coming with us."

"Wait a moment!" I protested. "She could be putting on an act—for all you know, she speaks perfect English."

"That's true." The officer nodded, and looked at her partner. "Hey, Mike. You ever heard the one about the Japanese girl who—." She proceeded to tell the most flagrantly racist and bigoted anti-Asian joke I had ever heard, encompassing coprophagia, incest, and bestiality in the crudest possible terms. It passed so far beyond the boundaries of good taste and social acceptability that it went below the horizon. Moreover, she told it as calmly and coolly as if she were reading the instructions on a tube of caulking aloud.

I recoiled, appalled. Her partner burst into whoops of laughter, and the girl did not react at all. She did not even flinch, and not a flicker of comprehension or outrage showed in her eyes.

"Nope, she's not faking." said the Officer Boyer. "Doctor Crane, how'd you like to run through your story of how she came to be unconcious on your living room floor for me once more while Mike here has a look around for her shoes or her purse or whatever she might have come here with?"

In the end, since they found nothing, they brought her along in a pair of my socks.

* * *

A/N: I have a brand new poll concerning Lady Suzume and her abilities on my profile page. Go check it out and make your opinion known!


	26. Cypridophobia: The Fear of Prostitution

The two most annoying sounds:

A mosquito's whine

And my mother-in-law's complaints.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

The girl (whom I did not for a moment believe was really Suzume) did not want to leave the house, cringing and weeping, but that was as nothing to getting her in the patrol car. She would not enter it of her own free will, and of course no verbal threat or coaxing could induce her to do so. Officer Boyer had to physically restrain her and put her in bodily, prying her hands from the door frame.

Once inside, she lunged for my door when I got in, and I had to grab on to her to keep her from climbing over me, which was both embarrassing and disconcerting, because of how and more precisely _where_ I had to grab her. My seat mate put her hands over her face and wailed as the car started, then tried to curl up in a fetal position, her limbs rigid and trembling. Officer Ogilvy snorted scornfully at me as he put the car into gear, and as we pulled out of my driveway, I could see the silhouettes of the neighbors watching at some of the windows around us. Perfect. That completed the humiliation—at least for the moment.

The worst of it was—well, it was so awful that it was hard to select a worst from all the abysmal possibilities I saw looming ahead of me, but high on that list was that my grandmother was right here in Gotham City and would undoubtedly hear about this. I could imagine her snorting and saying that history always repeated itself. History, in this case, was a Crane taking advantage of an underage girl.

My father, Gerald Crane, was twenty-seven when I was conceived. He was a construction worker. My mother was barely fifteen. She was, or was supposed to be, a future debutante who would go on to one of the better Southern colleges before marrying well—which is to say, for money and social connections. I derailed Grandmother's plans for her; it can hardly be said which of us she was most furious with: my mother, my father, or me. Immediately upon learning her daughter was pregnant, she whisked 'the whore' off to the old homestead in order to save what remained of the family name—what a joke. Of course she forbid my mother to see her impregnator again, and of course my mother ran off to him at the first possible opportunity.

She loved him. She thought he loved her.

There is not much which can be said in my father's defense, but he and my mother met in a bar to which she had gained entry using a fake ID. According to my grandmother, she had a fondness for frozen mixed drinks, older men and marijuana. He could have married her. Georgia laws at the time allowed for a pregnant teenager to marry the father of her child without parental consent. He could have married her, but he declined the honor of marrying a descendant of the Keenys, saying that he was not her first lover or even her only lover, and the baby wasn't his. Then he decamped for parts unknown.

Eventually he wound up in Gotham City, (doesn't everybody?) where he now owns a construction company. That was one of the reasons I applied for the position I currently occupied, because of course I was curious about him. I have never met him. I would not have let my curiosity stand in the way of my career. If I had had a better offer than the Gotham University, I would have taken it. In my last-minute frantic job hunt I applied to many different hospitals and universities. Gotham was the first one which offered me a job. First and only. Apparently I don't interview well.

What I wanted to do—what I'd planned on doing—was to achieve something, to win fame, recognition, wealth—all the kinds of things I'd dreamed of while breaking my back hoeing weeds among the vegetables—and then when he stepped forward to acknowledge _me_—I'd reject him. Childish, perhaps, but satisfying to think about. Now I would be famous, all right. I would be recognized as the professor who called the police on himself after drugging and molesting an underage girl.

Speaking of whom…I looked at her with loathing, but she wasn't paying attention to me. We were going through the tunnel now, with its orange sodium-vapor lighting, and she was looking all around, nearly paralytic with terror, the most abjectly frightened human being I had ever seen. I would have enjoyed seeing that, if it weren't all an act.

"Gee-go-coo." she whispered, as other cars whizzed past us. I have since learned that what she was saying is written as 'Jigoku', and it means 'Hell'.

I opened my mouth to snap at her, but then I thought better of it. I didn't want to give the police any more of an impression of a relationship between us than they already had.

Like so many other big cities, the natural processes of urban growth and decay had left many of Gotham City's large and important institutions isolated in neighborhoods with high crime rates. I believe the most famous example is the Gotham City Metropolitan Opera, behind which the Waynes were murdered some twenty years ago, in what is called 'Crime Alley,' but Gotham University was no slouch in that department. I would not have ventured beyond a block from the campus after dark voluntarily, for fear of my life.

The nearest police station to the university served as the clearinghouse for human detritus such as prostitutes, their customers and their procurers, inebriates, and drug addicts, and it was among them that the girl and I had to wait for our turn to explain ourselves to someone higher up. We were shoved summarily into what they called the 'Aquarium', a centrally located waiting room in the middle of the station, a little better than a holding cell, but hideous none the less.

Everyone in the Aquarium sat up and took notice once we entered—or rather once the girl entered, as she was the more exotic of us. Immediately they began cat-calling and whistling at her, saying things like, "Hey, hey, hey, Baby, you horny? Bring it on over here, Me love _you_ long time!" and "China _doll_! I gotta yen for you!" As there weren't enough seats, she sank gracefully to her knees, sitting on her heels which prompted more cat-calls. "On her knees! Guess that's how she like to do business!" "You think she's waxed bare down there?" "Naw, she hasn't even grown any yet!"

She shrank into herself, looking around as though she expected to be struck or worse at any moment, a small white-clad figure with a pair of my grey socks flopping around her ankles. It went on until a uniformed officer stuck his head in and yelled, "Hey! Keep it down!" Then the jeering subsided, even if the leering did not.

It did not help that the temperature in there was at least eighty-five degrees and that it smelled of moldy tennis shoes. I knew I was responsible, and I felt guilty. Why had I called the police, and not Alasdair Kemp? Everyone wishes at times that they could turn back the clock, but no one more so than I at that moment. This disgusting place, full of lurid debauched faces…

…one of which was now bent over Suzu—bent over _the girl_, a man who was obviously a procurer. When he smiled, his mouth glittered with diamonds like sun on fresh snow. "Hey, baby. How old are you? Fourteen, fifteen? You want to make some real money, you need a promoter, somebody who'll lay out some cash on you, your wardrobe, get you your own apartment. I can find you a date any hour of the day or night, have them lining up for you."

"Leave her alone!" I interjected forcefully.

He looked at me, and brayed, "Lord, you're almost as pretty as she is! You a package deal? You can come along too. I can find _you_ some dates too—but those glasses have got to go!"

Fortunately at that moment a plainclothes detective stuck his head in and called, "Crane and Murasaki! C'mon!" He was an obese fellow with frizzy, conical hair and a mustache; his ID read 'Flass'. I disliked him immediately; his eyebrows flew up and he mouthed 'Whoa' when he saw the girl. An officer of the law ought to behave better than the people he polices.

I had to beckon to her and finally take her arm to get her to stand up and go along, and I nearly lifted her off the floor when I did, that was how light she was. She looked up at me with a fulminating glare, but she came. Another proof she was not Suzume, not the ghost of the scroll. If she had those sorts of powers, why did she not use them? Not that I wanted her to use them on _me_, but I would not have objected had she used them on some of the other 'fish' in the Aquarium.

We followed him through the station and up some stairs to a sort of mezzanine which allowed one to survey almost the entire lower floor. There was an office area up there with a sofa and chairs to one side, and he waved us to it. If the Aquarium had been hot, this was hotter; the cliff from which Mephistopheles surveyed hell must have been like it.

Officer Boyer was in the office area, waiting for another detective to get off the phone, this one a more trim and fit looking man. His ID read 'Gordon', and he wore glasses.

"What do we have here?" he asked, looking over at us.

"That's what I was hoping you could figure out, sir. He's Dr. Crane, and says she's the perp, but his story has more holes in it than those socks she's got on. Her name is Suzume Murasaki and she has no ID, no passport, no purse, and knows no English. She was in his living room, drugged and unconscious. He says he's never seen her before. We don't know how old she is, whether she's here legally or whether she was in his house voluntarily. Nor do we know what, if anything, has been done to her, and I'm not going to take somebody who doesn't speak English and doesn't know what's going on for a rape kit. That would be as traumatic as the rape itself."

"I didn't rape anybody and I have never laid a hand on her!" I said angrily, but I was ignored.

"Ogilvy's gone to find Nguyen." Boyer finished.

"Good. God, it's hotter than hell in here. Can't _somebody_ do anything about the temperature?" Gordon complained.

"I can get some bottled water." Boyer volunteered. She went off down the stairs, passing Ogilvy and an Asian officer on the way up.

At the sight of the Asian man, the girl leapt up and ran to him, talking very excitedly and rapidly, wringing her hands and pleading.

"Hey, calm down!" he said, but in English. Then he said something in another language, I had no idea which, but it did not sound like the same language she spoke.

She stared at him in just as much incomprehension as she had stared at Ogilvy in my living room. He tried another language. She shook her head and then burst into tears, her face crumpling in despair. "Sir, I don't know how much help I can be here. I may be the Asian-American Community Liaison Officer but the emphasis on that is on the _American_. Almost everybody I deal with speaks English or has a close family member who does. I'm fluent in Vietnamese and I can get by in Mandarin, but she doesn't know either of those. You'll have to find somebody who speaks Japanese."

"Great." Gordon shook his head, scratching his scalp. "And how do I do _that_ at ten-thirty at night? Without knowing how old she is, I don't even know whether this is a case for Immigration or Social Services—wait a second. Come here—Suzume?"

"Murasaki O-Suzume-sama," she said just as she had at my house.

She didn't budge, so he went over to her. "Turn towards the light—that's it," he guided her. "Now open your mouth—see, like this?" He demonstrated. She stared at him.

"What are you looking for?" asked Flass, who had taken up a seat and was staring at the tableau.

"Wisdom teeth. They emerge between the ages of seventeen and twenty-one. If I can see them then she's of legal age. Open your mouth, please?" She got the idea, and dropped her jaw.

Everybody's jaw dropped, including mine. "What the fuck?" Flass asked. "She's got black teeth?!"

She did. And a chipped upper left bicuspid. She was Suzume, after all.

I felt faint. What was I going to do? How was I going to get us out of there?

* * *

A/N: The poll is closing soon! Vote now if you haven't already!


	27. Angrophobia: The Fear of Becoming Angry

Kokomun-to in winter:

the clouds drip

and so does my nose.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

Suzume tried to jerk away, but Gordon gently prevented her. "It's okay, it's okay…Flass, this young lady might not be able to understand exactly what you're saying, but I'm sure she understands the tone you're using, so unless you want to end up in sensitivity training again—." His tones were warm and reassuring, his manner, paternal.

"Shit, no!" said that particular empathy-challenged individual.

"Then I suggest you watch it. Eleven, twelve—." Gordon peered around in Suzume's mouth, counting.

"I know what that is," said Officer Nguyen, dawning excitement in his voice. "It's a stain women use on their teeth. I didn't think anybody still did that except for old grannies in the back of beyond. About twenty-odd years ago, my parents decided the old folks ought to see their grandkids while we were still kids and we ought to see our grandparents at least once face to face, so we went to Vietnam. My mom's mother stained her teeth black like that. Scared the hell out of me the first time I saw her smile."

"Why would she go and do that?" Flass asked.

"She said all the women did it when they got married, so other men wouldn't look at them. But it wears off, so she had to reapply it every few days. If you think it looks bad now, you ought to see it when it isn't fresh…But that was in Vietnam, not Japan. Where does she come from that _young_ women still dye their teeth?"

"Maybe she's the Japanese version of Amish?" Boyer offered, having come up while all this was going on. She held four condensation-misted bottles. "You know, living the traditional lifestyle and all."

"Twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty two… Thank you, O-Suzume-sama." He let her go and she stepped backward, giving him a suspicious look. "Her wisdom teeth came in nice and straight, so she's a grown-up and you're off the hook, Dr. Crane—at least as far as child molestation goes. As for anything else—Nguyen, can you try and come up with somebody who does speak Japanese and get them here as soon as possible?" Gordon asked. "Maybe there's a restaurant open or something."

"Not in this area. Uptown you'll find real Japanese chefs, but in this part of Gotham they're more likely to be Filipinos. But I'll try." Officer Nguyen disappeared back down the stairs.

"Now, Boyer, can you tell me why, given your suspicions, you put these two in a car together to bring them down here when you should have called for back-up to get one of them."

"Because there wasn't anybody else to back us up." she explained. "We're overextended. In fact, the captain's hollering for Ogilvy and I to get back out there, so I've got to dump these and go." She put the water down on a table and left, her partner following her.

"Dr. Crane, O-Suzume-sama, why don't we sit, have some water, and talk about—whatever it is that's going on." Gordon invited us to move to the sofa and chairs.

I sat on one of the chairs, and Suzume once again sank to her knees. I glanced at her. She seemed calmer now that she was away from the Aquarium, although she still flinched at unfamiliar sounds. While probably not the oddest visitor this police station had ever seen, she did look eccentric. The kimono she was wearing was white cotton, not one of the luxurious robes from her dowry, and instead of the elegant hair ornaments, she had secured her hair with a couple of my pencils and an old pink plastic comb from under the bathroom sink. Why? Did she despise her old possessions because of their association with a past she wanted no part of? At least the thumbprints on her forehead had been wiped off when she dried her tears with her sleeve.

"She's not going to be doing much talking." Flass commented.

"You'd be surprised what someone can say without saying a word." Gordon smiled wryly. I agreed with him, although I did not say so. He had picked up some psychology along the way. He took one of the bottles of water, twisted off the cap, and drank about a quarter of it. Flass took another, and I took the other two, passing one to Suzume.

"Arigato?" she said, sounding dubious.

"Arigato?" echoed Flass. "So they really do say that. 'Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto. Domo. Domo,'" he sang. "That Styx song, you know? Okay, you don't have to look at me like that," he groused, seeing our stares.

Suzume had no idea how to open her bottle, so I took it from her, opened it and handed it back. She smelled it suspiciously, tried a drop on her tongue, then exclaimed, "Mizu! Arigato," and drank.

"Let's get back on topic," suggested Gordon. "Dr. Crane, why don't you tell us your side of the story?"

"Very well." I began, "A few days ago, I think it was Saturday, I started noticing that little things were out of place around my house. For example, the soap would be on the wrong side of the sink or one of my shirts was folded a strange way. Also, there was food missing. I suspected someone was getting in when I was gone, and that they had a key, since there was no sign of forced entry. I live on campus in a house on the Horseshoe, and I don't know how often the university changes the locks. It was possible that a previous tenant had kept a key, or perhaps given it out to someone who had a duplicate cut, and that was how they were getting in. I didn't tell anyone because I had no proof. What would I have said, anyway? That someone was trying to Gaslight me?"

I took a swig of water. "So I came up with a plan to trap whoever was getting in. I put a powdered sleeping pill in a piece of glazed fruit and left it for the intruder to find before I went to teach an evening class. When I came back, she was fast asleep on my living room floor. That was when I called the police, and the rest you know. I never stopped to think how the situation would look to someone else. I did not rape her. I did not touch her. I have no idea where her shoes or her ID or her passport are. I never saw her before in my life."

Flass snorted. Gordon nodded, and said, "That's quite a story. I'm sure some of it is true--like the part about how you never stopped to think about how it would look. I don't buy you as a rapist, or a kidnapper either."

"Thank you," I told him, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

"However, the reason I don't believe your whole story is the same reason I don't believe you abducted or brutalized this girl: the way you two are interacting. She's ticked off at you, sure, but not in the way a victim is. She's not afraid of you. And when I was watching you two in the Aquarium a few minutes ago, and again just now with that bottle of water, the way you act toward her tells me you two know each other. To me, this looks like a very strange domestic dispute that got a little carried away."

"That isn't--," I began, but Flass interrupted with a chuckle that sounded like a boot being pulled free from wet manure.

"Oh, I bet I know what's going on here. Either she's a little souvenir you brought home from vacation or you got her by air mail off a dating website." He put air quotes around the word 'dating' with his fat fingers. "For a while it was all good, until you found out she was a twenty-some year old whore instead of the fourteen year old virgin you thought you were getting." He chuckled again, that same filthy sound.

I was so furious I did not know how to reply. "That's the most utterly degrading--." He cut me off.

"You see, they got these plastic surgeons over there that specialize in reconditioned virgins," he expounded. "They do a little nip-tuck on a gal's hoo-hah, tighten her up, build her a new cherry for the next guy to bust--and nobody could tell the difference. Bet she's had that done two, three times a year since she was fourteen, 'cause they're not dumb over there. They're not going to waste a face like the one she's got."

Not for the first time, I wished I had been gifted with a more intimidating frame and personality. I drew breath to reply angrily--and then a quantam shift happened inside my head. This asshole _was not important_. (I could not think of Flass without swearing.) Getting Suzume and myself out of here was my priority. He was baiting me deliberately; the last thing I ought to do was get agitated. "How is it you're so well informed on this particular subject?" I asked him, as cool as the air pouring out of a freezer on a hot July afternoon.

"--it doesn't matter if he's old or an amputee or even just a dweeb who couldn't pick up a woman with a forklift--What?" Flass asked.

"You seem to know a great deal on the topic of prostitution in Asia. I was wondering if your interest was professional or personal. Planning a second career after you retire from the force."

"Now you look here--," Flass began.

I turned to Gordon instead. "Sir, it's getting late and I have to teach tomorrow. Are you planning on arresting me, and if so, on what charges?"

"No, not at this time." He gave me the once-over. "Tonight alone we've had to deal with two armed robberies, a stabbing, a triple homicide, a schizophrenic woman with a gun who attempted to hijack a city bus, and the biggest bust of streetwalkers and fancy men yet this year, as you might have guessed from seeing who was sharing the Aquarium with you. You're very low down on my list of priorities, Dr. Crane. In fact, you don't even make the top twenty. It wouldn't be a good idea for you to leave town, but if you'll give me your contact information you're free to go home."

"Thank you." I said.

"Now the question is, are you pressing charges?" Gordon asked. "Flass, don't you have paperwork to do or something? I think the show is over."

"Me?" I asked. Meanwhile, Flass muttered something about people who weren't as smart as they thought they were and shoved roughly past me.

"Yes. Against her. For breaking and entering, petty theft, and so on."

"No," I said, hoping I saw a way out of this. "My sense of outrage has evaporated since I made that ill-advised phone call."

"All right," he nodded, grimacing briefly.

"What will happen to her?" I asked.

"Well, under the circumstances, it's best if she is our guest for tonight, don't you think? Without shoes, money, and ID--or even with them, given how small and attention-getting she is, letting her leave here at this hour would be like shoving a lamb into a wolves' den. She'd either be raped and murdered before morning or wind up involuntarily working for one of the upstanding citizens downstairs. We'll find her a translator and take it from there."

"That seems sensible." I replied slowly, already making plans. If I called Alasdair Kemp, and got him to call the station looking for his assistant Suzume Murasaki, who spoke no English and was missing--. I would have to promise him something, I didn't know what as yet.

"Of course, if, when you get home, you should take a look around and find oh, say, her suitcase hidden somewhere, with her passport and stuff in it, it would save everyone a great deal of trouble if you could drop it by." He had very tired but very intelligent eyes. "I can tell there's more going on here than what you're telling me, Dr. Crane--but right now I'm just too busy."

* * *

A/N: Gaslight is the classic movie starring Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer in which a young woman becomes increasingly mentally ill as a result of strange happenings in the household.

So--the poll. Between those who would like to see some martial arts action, with or without Suzume slicing up somebody's face, and those who do not want to see any--well, it came out a tie. So I will only commit to a Joker cameo and wing it when it comes to that scene.


	28. Hygrophobia: The Fear of Liquids

Leaving my wet inkstone,

I look away for a moment--

Now pawprints are everywhere!

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

However, I was not to make that call to Kemp pleading for his help that night. I gave Gordon my address and phone number, and then he, Suzume and I went back down to the main floor of the police station, which was still a hubbub of activity. All the desks were occupied, and many of the detectives and officers were interviewing people, taking down statements and so forth. The building must have been something else before it was a police station, for the ceiling above us was fancy pressed-tin from the Victorian Era, with holes chopped in it here and there to install lights and a sprinkler system—a sad vandalism, because it was a work of art. The Keeney mansion had one in the blue morning room, until Great-Grandmother sold it to pay various bills and unpaid property tax. It had fetched several thousand dollars, and it had been smaller and simpler than the one here.

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, I asked Gordon, "So where is she going now?", as I wanted to know exactly where to send Kemp.

"Back in the Aquarium," he indicated with a jerk of his head. My disapproval must have shown plainly, for he explained, "I know it leaves a lot to be desired, but it's the best place I can put her. That room is watched on all sides at all times, so nobody can make a move on her in any way except the verbal. The alternative is to stick her in a holding cell, which would be worse."

Suzume did not agree. When she realized I was going one way and she was going another, and that way was back to the Aquarium, amongst the pimps and whores, she first protested in surprise, then in desperation, shoving away Gordon's guiding hand. Of course no one could understand exactly what she was saying, but when her eyes met mine, she wailed. Her expression was a mixture of terror, pleading and reproach, but I could do nothing except try to communicate in return that I was sorry and I would get help.

Gordon did not want to hurt her, but she was struggling in his grip. A couple of officers came to his aid, blocking her from escaping even if she could break free—and then she came apart.

Literally.

One moment there was a small woman in the center of a triangle of men twice her size, and the next, several gallons of liquid splashed all over the room, on the people, the desks and computer equipment, and the floor. Most of it seemed to be water, but there was ink and blood as well, as though all three substances had been flung from different containers at the same time.

That night I learned that there is nothing to quiet a large group of people quite like someone suddenly going 'splash' in their midst. For several long seconds everyone simply gaped, astonished, and then a young man with a terrible facial disfigurement, seated nearby in handcuffs, brushed at his formerly white shirt, now spattered in red and black. "Interesting little, uhm, tric-k." he said. "Kinda messy, though. I know one you do with a pencil—."

Gordon exploded, "What the hell just happened?"

Then everyone started making noise, shouting to be heard over one another. The drenched electronics had short circuited, of course, and a lot of paperwork destroyed. The clothing of those nearest was soaked through, although only a few drops had reached me, and all present were outraged, baffled, and asking questions at the same time. All except for the young man with the scars that ran nearly from ear to ear. He was looking at his messy shirt with fascination.

I would have liked to slip out amidst all the confusion, but Gordon was too sharp for that. "Crane!" he barked over the din, "This way. Now!" His tone of voice brooked no refusal, and I joined him to one side of the room.

He was a sight. Having been at Ground Zero, he bore the brunt of the splash all over him, but his personality overrode any lack of dignity in his appearance. "Do you have anything you want to tell me about what just happened?"

I considered for a moment, and replied, "I'm a psychologist. If I ever enter Arkham Asylum, I want it to be as a staff member—not as a patient."

"Oh, yeah?" he retorted. "Then why did you go calling the police about your little—problem?"

"When I got home and saw her, I thought I was wrong about-whatever she is. I thought she was flesh and blood like everybody else."

He shook his head. "I knew something strange was going on when she didn't recognize a bottle of water for what it was. I don't care if she just got off the boat from wherever, even if she didn't read English, she'd have seen plastic bottles before."

Raising his voice, he called out to the entire room. "All right. All right, people! Listen up! I know you all saw what just happened here." Striding to the epicenter of Suzume's splash, he continued. "But what you just saw is going to get us in a lot of trouble, one way or another if we tell it like it happened. Either there'll be a three ring circus complete with freakshow, or we'll all wind up talking to the department shrinks. So—." He stepped up on a chair, then on to a desk and took out his firearm. "This is how it's going to be." He thumbed off the safety catch and readied it for firing. "The security videos for the last fifteen minutes are going to suffer a strange malfunction that erases them, during which time this happened."

Taking careful aim, he fired, hitting a sprinkler head, which went flying, and the pipe started spewing filthy stagnant water down on the spot where Suzume had suddenly disappeared, eradicating the ink and blood, but adding to the mess. The bullet buried itself in the tin ceiling, leaving another hole among many. "There. I accidentally discharged my firearm and by bad luck it hit the sprinkler system. That's what happened, and anybody who says otherwise is delusional. I'll take full responsibility and start filling out the paperwork. Meantime, somebody call Maintenance."

He stepped down off the desk and turned to me again. "Do you think she's gone? Gone for good, I mean, Doctor Crane?"

"No, " I answered. "I don't think so."

"Then you'd better go. And good luck."

"Thank you," I said, glad to leave while there was still the possibility of tracking Suzume. For I had seen what no one else saw—a trail of small wet footprints, made by someone who wasn't wearing any shoes. It lead out of the station and down the street.

* * *

A/N: I added several new links to my profile--check it out!


	29. Maskaphobia: The Fear of Masks

* * *

A/N: Normally I'm canon when it comes to origin stories. However, you might have noticed I'm a stickler for detail. I can write about Dead Wet Girls going splash, people who deal with their issues by dressing up as bats and scarecrows and really tacky evil clowns, no problem. But I can't write Crane's great-grandmother trained crows to attack him by squeezing dead rat juices (eeew) on the old scarecrow and also on his best Sunday suit (doubly eeew) when I know it's stupid.

Crows are _smart_. Crows make tools. Crows can learn how to use a coin-operated peanut dispenser. Crows can recognize individual humans' faces. Crows can count. All scientifically proven. And they're not going to be fooled by just a little dead rat stink. If she hung dead rats around the scarecrow's neck and around Crane's neck, then yes, they'd go for the dead rats. But if all there is on him is the reek, they'd soon figure out there was no reason to dive-bomb this guy. The person who wrote that origin deserves a little dead rat juice on _his_ clothes.

Which is my way of saying I'm taking liberties with his back story. End of rant.

Added another link to my profile page--a drawing of Suzume by AnotherMaddHatter. Thanks so much!

Also, I promised some explanations about that guy with the scars--you know the one--and they didn't make it into this chapter. Sorry. I'll put it in the next one.

* * *

This winter morning

Crows against the snowy landscape;

all that's lacking is the artist's stamp.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

When I was at leisure, I might theorize about the physiology (or lack thereof) of ghosts, but my most urgent problem at the moment was finding my sample specimen.

Following her rapidly drying footprints down the street, I noted the general decrepitude of the neighborhood. I could not see a single piece of living vegetation, not even a blade of grass, which is always a bad sign. The fewer trees there are in an area, the worse the area. When the only earth is as bare and hard as baked clay, it is a sure sign that one way or another, the general environs are not healthy for living things. A few of the front stoops I passed had small clusters of people loitering on them; the further I got from the police station, the more groups there were, and they grew larger. As I went by, they watched me with cold, reptilian eyes.

I felt the seismic thoom-thoom of a car's audio system before I heard it—was it my imagination, or did it slow as it passed me, as though those in it wanted to have a good look at me? Half the street lights were out, but I could see the next intersection up ahead, and Suzume's footprints glistened in what light there was. Waiting at the corner was—

--something impossible. It was someone wearing a scarecrow costume, no, _the_ scarecrow costume I had made all those years ago. I had burned it after I got away, that same night. I had watched it twist as the sparks darted over it like gnats rising from the wet grass, watched it blacken and shrivel. Yet here it was, on this unknown person's slightly built, not-too-tall frame. I _knew_ it was the same one, I remembered every crude stitch, every rip, every patch and stain. This was not possible.

It—_he_ stirred as I got nearer, and spoke, "Remember the pumpkins."

"What?" I knew that voice. Thick with a Georgian accent, young, and male, it was my own, unmodified as I had spoken when at home. Not my voice as one would hear it coming from a recording device, but my voice as I heard it when I spoke.

"You heard me. Remember the pumpkins." And then he was gone.

The preponderance of evidence had forced me to believe there was a Suzume, but nothing would convince me that the scarecrow had been real. No, not even a handful of the straw.

I did, however, remember the pumpkins. In the last couple of years I lived with Great-Grandmother, there was a slow but inevitable, inexorable shift in power, as she grew physically and mentally frailer and weaker and I grew stronger and more confident. The blows she rained down upon my shoulders no longer had that same forceful sting, and it was difficult for her to maintain the same psychological stranglehold she had upon my mind when she sometimes confused me for her late brother-in-law. One day when she raised her cane to belabor me with it yet again, I simply turned around and wrested it from her hand.

It's hard to say which of us was the more surprised, she or I. I sprang to my feet, turned, raised the cane above my head, and she cowered, _yes_, she finally cowered from me. I paused, because that moment burned sweet in my heart as a drop of peach brandy on the tongue, and I wanted to savor it. I paused, and she waited for the blow to fall. I could hurt her, break her bones, beat her to death, even—and she could do nothing to stop me.

Yet I didn't strike. Not because I believed hitting a defenseless old woman was wrong; after all, this was the woman who had scarred me and starved me my entire life. Nor was it because I believed hitting people in general was wrong. I had been hit so often and by so many different people that even now I can only intellectually comprehend that using physical violence is wrong. Emotionally I am entirely indifferent to it.

I did not refrain from hitting her because it was wrong. Alive and intact, she was useful as the only person in the house who could write and sign checks, useful as a cook, useful as my legal guardian. Dead or severely injured, even hospitalized, she would be a great deal of trouble, one way or another. So I merely threw her cane to the ground and walked away. From then on, I asserted myself more, taking another piece of cornbread at dinner, demanding the key to the mansion's mildewing library, and she did not like it.

That year I decided to grow something new. I planted a cash crop. Pumpkins. I chose a variety which would be ideal for Jack-o'Lanterns, because they only had to look good, not taste good, and because I could sell them myself at the farmer's market in a nearby town, thereby eliminating the middle man and making a larger profit. I had hauled water all summer to grow them, weeding and hoeing and all the other things one must do to grow pumpkins, and by fall I had a fine crop. A neighbor with a truck promised me transportation for both me and my vegetables, and late one Friday night I picked several dozen, crated them up, and went to sleep so I could be up bright and early. I didn't want to keep the neighbor waiting, after all.

Except the neighbor kept me waiting. I waited and waited, while the sun grew higher in the sky, until at last I went in to call him and ask him if something was wrong.

"Oh, your grandmother called and said I shouldn't bother to come." His voice was distinctly cooler than when I had last spoken to him.

"But I—she was wrong. I need a ride, I was counting on you, not just this weekend but through till Halloween."

"Well you can count on somebody else." He hung up. I looked at the receiver for a long moment before I hung up, listening to the dial tone. She had said something to him, I didn't know what, but something that was bad enough to make him despise me and not even listen to my side of the story.

What was I going to do now? I couldn't rent a truck, because I didn't have my driver's license yet, and even if I could afford to hire someone in advance, there went my profits…

I had long ago stopped wondering why my great-grandmother and grandmother hated me so much. Instead, I went out and looked at all my pumpkins, round and orange and perfect as a harvest moon. They were no good for baking or stewing, just for carving into funny faces. Squirrels might eat them, but little else would. All that work, for nothing.

The fury I felt threatened to overwhelm me. I could not go anywhere near my great-grandmother at that moment, because I did not trust myself. I had to find some release for this—and I did. I smashed the pumpkins, a dozen or so at a time over the next few weeks. But why would a long-buried part of my psyche want to remind me of that at this particular moment?

I crossed the street, and stopped, because that was where the line of footprints ended. "Murasaki-Sama?" I called out. This neighborhood wasn't quite as bad as the one I had just walked through; there was a sickly maple sapling planted by the curb.

No-one answered.

"Murasaki O-Suzume-Sama?" I tried again. Seeing a flutter of white by a paling, I went over to have a look at what might be there. It was only a plastic bag from the chain drugstore down the street. I began to feel quite perturbed. Although Suzume might be essentially immortal and invulnerable, she was still all alone in Gotham City, in an era she had no knowledge of, and in a country whose dominant languages she did not speak. Perhaps she was already back at my house, through some connection to either the chest or her bones, but I doubted it. I had broken the charm which bound her to both when I broke the paper seals on the box which held her skeleton, and although that might mean she was free, it also meant she could get lost. I…felt bad about that.

More than bad. She was the same person who had suffered five years in exile, married to a lout, friendless and lonely, only to die a slow and hideous death by poison, and I had betrayed her yet again. Perhaps I was only sentimentalizing, but she was the only person I could say I felt a sort of emotional connection to, and now—could she, would she trust me? Would I never see her again—or would she decide I deserved to share her husband's fate?

A third time I tried, "O-Suzume-sama?"

And then she was there, her bare feet pathetic against the dirty pavement, her hair hanging loose around her face, so long it reached below her waist and headed for her knees. She spoke, and while I did not understand the words, I knew what she meant without need for a translator and without benefit of telepathy. It was all there in the expression on her face, the tone of her voice, her body language.

"_Why?"_ she asked. _"Why are you looking for me now when you were going to abandon me there? Among those filth? I was so frightened… What did I do that I deserved such treatment? I mended your shirts for you_," she grabbed the collar of her own garment, tugging at it and pointing to me, "_and this is the way you show your appreciation?"_

The Japanese put much stock in bowing to show politeness, I recalled, so I did, saying, "I'm sorry. I was wrong. Please forgive me," hoping she would understand me as I did her.

She slapped me across the face, hard enough to knock my glasses askew, and it stung like blazes. _"I'm sorry—"_ she said, timidly, horrified at what she had done, but then she recovered. _"Why should I be sorry! You deserved that! What do you want from me now? Why should I trust you?" _she raged, the tears streaming down her face.

I straightened my glasses. "I am sorry, O-Suzume-sama, and I hope you will let me prove it. Come home with me. Come home, and we'll put this behind us. Please." I held my hand out to her.

She stood there a moment, simply looking at me, and her face twisted up in anguish. Then she looked around at the houses, at this city which was as alien to her, or more, than the surface of another world. "_All right,"_ she decided, _"I don't have any other choice."_

"Crane, Jonathan," I said, pointing to myself. "Murasaki O-Suzume-sama," I pointed at her, and then at myself again. "Crane, Jonathan."

"Ka-ra-ne," she said, sounding out more syllables than were really there. "Jun-a-san—Jun-san!" Her face lit up, and she smiled at me for the first time.

Evidently 'Jun' was a Japanese name, and the 'th-' sound is one of the hardest for non-English speakers to master. So she had interpreted my name as 'Jun-san'.

"Close enough," I agreed, nodding and smiling in return.

She still calls me that to this day, even though she can pronounce my name perfectly. When we're in private, however, it's 'Jun-san'.

This making friends was all well and good, but there was still a large problem ahead of us. We had to make it back to my house alive—or I had to make it back alive, at least.


	30. Alysidophobia: The Fear of Chains

Threads of silk:

Watching a spider wrap a fly

I stick my finger with my needle.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

How to get out of here, how to get out of here safely…No chance of hailing a taxi, not in this neighborhood and not at this hour. A bus? How likely was it that a bus would conveniently arrive at our moment of need? Not very. I had used up perhaps an entire lifetime's supply of luck that week already, and Gotham's bus system was notoriously unreliable anyhow.

I looked up at the street signs and consulted my mental map of the area. If I was correct, then four blocks down and one block over was a transit stop. If I wasn't correct—that was a bridge to be crossed when necessary.

Beckoning to Suzume, I took her hand, which seemed to surprise her a great deal, going by the look on her face. I thought for a moment she was going to pull away, but no. Her hand was as warm and dry as that of any ordinary living person. I led her down the street in the direction (I hoped) of the subway. After only a few yards I looked over at her; she was walking rather slowly. It wasn't hard to deduce why; she was putting her feet down gingerly while wincing with every step. Of course. She had no shoes on, and now that I recalled, I remembered seeing one of my socks in the puddle back on the floor of the police station. Neither they nor the comb and pencils had traveled with her, for some spectral reason, no doubt.

Noticing my look, she ducked her head and said something which sounded like 'Sue me mass in', spoken very quickly as if it were one word. It was probably an apology.

"That's all right," I replied. We were only a few doors away from that chain drugstore I had noticed earlier, and in the window I could see a solution to her problem: flip-flops, which ought to be familiar in style to her, if not in the color, which was a shade of green not found in nature, or the material, which was foam rubber. I pointed to them, and she exclaimed something happily. My name was somewhere in there, and I spared a second to glance at her; she was beaming up at me. She had...a very charming smile.

She hurried to keep up with my longer strides, although she limped a little, and we quickly reached the drugstore. Fortunately it closed at midnight, and it was only 10:55. There was a sign on the door which read 'No shirt, no shoes, no service', but what was I supposed to do with Suzume when she was the one who needed shoes?

This qualified as an emergency. I went in and she followed. The brightness of the store made us both blink, after having been out in the dark for so long, and the overwhelming array of things made Suzume blink even more, looking around with huge dark eyes. She asked a question, but while I might have understood her, and she comprehended me, when it came to emotional matters, where information was concerned we were lost at sea. Yet, even now, I could guess. Whatever the shops in Edo Japan had been like, she had never seen anything like this before. What must it look like to her eyes? Not like an amazing emporium of undreamed of luxuries, (or even a rather shabby chain store, which was what it was) but a source of sensory overload. Her grip on my hand tightened, as if she were a small child reassuring herself that Daddy was right there.

The single cashier did not even look up from his magazine, so there was no difficulty on that front. The flip-flops were in the center aisle with the seasonal merchandise, and Suzume wasted no time in choosing a pair, although she frowned at the plastic tie which bound the right and left together. Stepping into them, she hobbled a step or two, then looked at me and asked a question.

"I have no idea, but if those are the pair you want, then I'll cut them apart for you," I said, but she had seen another bin full of them, the difference being that the second bin held platform flip-flops, with two inch thick soles. Shucking off the first pair, she dashed over to those and found another pair which fit. With them on, she was all of five feet tall, but even that little gain seemed to please her. "Are those the ones?" I asked, pointing.

"Hai!" she said, nodding. There: we communicated anyway. I took out my keys and used one as a knife, retaining the tag with the sku ticket. She said something that sounded like, "_Oh, I get it!",_ and tried out a few proper steps. Her husband must have been a prize fool; who in their right mind would spend their nights down at Hooters when Audrey Hepburn was waiting at home?

"Okay," I said, looking around. Was there anywhere else, since we were here? I saw a display of tooth-whitening toothpaste, with a free brush included with purchase. The sooner her teeth were no longer such a distinct and identifiable black, the better…

I took the paste and brush, and then in the next aisle over, I saw something which made the meaning of the 'Scarecrow's' cryptic message clear, like when the optometrist slips another lens into the optical refractor: suddenly everything was sharp and in perfect focus.

A dog leash, not made of leather or pleather or even woven nylon, but the old-fashioned kind made of moderately heavy chain with a clip at the dog end and a leather strap at the human end.

Yet it might not be necessary. Leaving the chain where it was for the moment, I went up to the front counter. The cashier was still absorbed in his magazine, so I cleared my throat. "Excuse me—."

"Yeah? You done?" he grunted.

"Not quite. Is there a pay phone on the premises?"

"Nah, what with everybody having cell phones these days, they took it out."

"How unfortunate. Might I use your phone, then, to call a taxi? It's something of an emergency."

"No. It's for employee use only," he snorted, and went back to his magazine.

"Couldn't you make an exception in this case? My friend and I are stranded here." I bared my teeth at him in the hopes he would take it for a smile. "Please."

"No," replied that surly individual.

"Then might I use your cell phone? I'm willing to compensate you for the inconvenience."

"Look, buddy. Just where do you get off coming in here and talking down to me like that?"

"I beg your pardon," I said, "but this is how I normally speak."

"Yeah, right. If you're going to buy something, then do it and get out." He went back to reading.

Rather than engage him in conversation any longer, I back-tracked to the pet care area and got the leash, then looked around for Suzume. She proved to be in the hair-care aisle, where she had found the accessories. She was studying them intently when I came up to her, and at my approach she smiled shyly and, holding up a couple of them, asked what I took to be, "_Can I get these?"_

"Of course," I replied, "but it's time to leave."

"Arigato gozimasu," she replied.

We went up to the counter together, where I paid for everything. Suzume paused for a moment to gather her hair up at the back of her neck, securing it with a clip, and we left.

Once we were a few paces outside, I took the leash out of the bag and clipped my key ring to the end of them. I had quite a few keys, for my house, for various rooms and buildings on campus and so forth. Now I had a weapon which did not, at first glance, look like a weapon. Moreover, it was a particularly vicious (not to mention highly illegal) one: a slungshot. Not a _sling_shot, that childish toy of rubber bands and wood, but a _slung_shot, so called because one slung it around. It was similar to the medieval morningstar, that spiked ball on a chain fastened to a wooden handle so beloved of movie villains. While perhaps not as weighty as I would have liked, the sharp and jagged edges on the keys would tear through flesh even as they smashed bone. How did I know all this?

The pumpkins. After that crushing disappointment, I wanted to hit something, and simply throwing rocks at the inoffensive vegetables was not enough. Out in the decaying barn, I found an old dog chain and a lead weight about the size of a lime. Put together, I had something which would cave in a never-to-be jack o'lantern with one blow as easily as a spoon does an egg. That was how I smashed those pumpkins, one at a time. I put them on fence posts and laid about with the slungshot until the ground was littered with orange fragments. I pretended they were human heads, the heads of people I hated: classmates, the gym teacher, my great-grandmother, my grandmother, the fiction giving strength to my arm. It was a much needed and harmless release.

At first I was clumsy with it, inaccurate, as likely to hit the fence or have it arc around to bruise my other shoulder as hit the pumpkin, but as the days went on, I developed skills, discovering that force and power were not as important as control and precision, that momentum would take care of the rest. By the time I ran out of pumpkins, I could call where I would hit one: upper right, lower left, dead center, or clip the stem. Even though that was about ten years gone by, I remembered how it felt, what exactly to do, not to twist from the elbow, but to flip from the wrist--and see the weight dart out like a trout on the end of a fishing line.

The thought of using that skill against another human being was simultaneously thrilling and nauseating.

As we proceeded down the street, every step bringing us closer to (I hoped) safety, I glanced over at my companion. Any doubts I had about Suzume's ability to walk in platform flip-flops was quelled by the sight of her hurrying along to keep pace without so much as a wobble. One would have thought she had been wearing them from the time that she first learned to walk--and for all I knew about Edo era footwear, she had. Reaching the end of that block without encountering trouble, I began to hope we could continue unmolested--and then I heard it again--that 'thoom-thoom' of a stereo with enhanced bass, noise pollution on wheels. The car passed us--and then stopped.

Four men got out, unhurriedly, with the assurance of power that superior numbers, size, and firepower bestow on the ignorant. The streetlight behind them cast their faces in shadow, while it illuminated us in a Halloween glow of sodium vapor. Suzume glanced at me, and I felt her hand tense in mine. I squeezed it briefly; she, after all, had little to fear.

One of them said, casually, "You all have heard of toll bridges and toll roads, right?"

"Yes," I replied.

"But I bet you didn't know this street here," he stamped his foot for emphasis, "is a toll street. If you want to walk down it, you have to pay. We're the clecktors, see?" I knew he meant 'collectors', but that was how he said it: clecktors. He was evidently the leader, for his companions silently strolled over to half-surround us.

"I see. If I were to give you my wallet, would that be sufficient?" I asked, carefully. One does not make sudden moves around rattlesnakes.

"If you'd have paid before you got on it, sure." he said, scratching his privates lazily through his pants. "But you didn't, so there's like a fine, get me?"

"Yes." I said again.

"And she's walking on it, too, so the fine is double. How about the two of you get in our car here, so's we can go somewhere to discuss how you're going to pay, all right?"

The first law of urban safety is: _never_, **never** get in their vehicle. Not even if they say they'll kill you if you don't. If they're disturbed enough to kill you for not obeying, then they're more than disturbed enough to kill you once they have you in their power.

"I would prefer not to," I replied.

"And I think you don't have a choice!" He pulled a gun, but I was expecting that, and the leash with my keys on the end soared at his hand, wrapping around his wrist before the jagged edges bit like a viper. No, I hadn't forgotten how to do this, it was a physical memory as well as an intellectual one. I yanked hard, and the gun went flying while he screamed, an unexpectedly high pitched sound.

Before the others could react, I was already moving, bringing the chain up and back to hit the nearest in the head, aiming for the temple, the thinnest, most vulnerable part of the skull. I missed--by a couple of inches, hitting him in the eye. The keys pierced the cornea and kept going, burying themselves in the brain. I believe he was dead before he hit the ground. Suzume, meanwhile, was not standing around screaming for help like a damsel in distress. She had leapt on the back of the third (how, I didn't know, having missed it) and was strangling him with her hair, wrapping it around his neck over and over. He gagged, clawing at her, stumbling around like a bear drunk on fermented windfall apples.

That left a fourth--but I was not quick enough, having had to yank my keys back out of an eye socket. I heard the click of the safety coming off and turned. "You drop that there chain right now, you little son of a bitch--and call her off my brother!"

"I can't," I said.

"That's just too bad," he replied, and his finger began to compress the trigger.

"Ah-ah-ah!" came a slightly familiar voice. "No bringing guns into a friendly little tussle like this. It would make me ver-ry unhappy--and I'm a man who likes to _smile_."

It was the young man with the facial scarring from the police station. He was still wearing the handcuffs, but the linking chain was broken, and he had an ugly looking blade at the fourth man's throat, having come up on him from the side. "What about you?" he asked the man. "Do you like to smile? No? Why don't I do something about that, hmm?" The blade caressed the fourth man's face, a downy cheek that had never yet been shaved--then dipped under his chin to draw a red line which gapped and gaped, fountaining blood onto the street.

"Hi," the cheerful young homicidal maniac said to me--and to Suzume, who had left her man blue-faced and ominously still on the sidewalk. "You don't have to thank me, because this is my little way of thanking you."

"Kuchisake otoko?" Suzume asked, peering at him from behind my shoulder. Why she was hiding behind me now when she had proven herself able, I did not know, but it was--almost endearing.

"Whatever you said, baby-doll," he agreed with her. "You see, I was just thinking that my invisibility was done and, uh, over with, and I was about to be printed, sampled, photographed, strip-searched and lots of other fun stuff. And since I , uh, can't have that, I would have had to come back with a stick of dynamite to turn that police station into a hole in the ground. Then all of a sudden their attention got pulled off by her, and I was able to slip away in all the confusion. Their entire computer system went down, so even the record of my being brought in is gone--poof! Now since I was feeling grateful--and because it was such an, uh, interesting experience, I thought I would follow you to see if even more interesting things might happen--and they did. Oh, I see one is still alive."

The first man, the leader whose hand I had turned into chopped meat with bone splinters, was trying to wield his gun in his left hand while cradling the other hand against his chest. He spat out a curse as he discovered his left hand did not have nearly the pull of his right. "Need a little help there, pal?" asked our apparent friend, and bent over him. "Now you just go like this--," a shrill scream came from the injured man. "Did that , uh, hurt? Good...and this...and then!" A shot rang out, and the scarred man stepped back. The ringleader now had a third eye socket. "Perfect!"

Suzume tugged at my sleeve to get my attention, and when I looked at her, she was very pale. As white as a ghost, in fact. She said something that sounded like a hesitant question, nodding at the man who had come to our rescue. "I'm sorry." I told her. "I just don't understand you."

Our savior (although it was a stretch to call him that) came over, giving us an appraising look. "You did all right with that," he said, indicating the chain I still held. "That kind of skill only comes with practice--and you didn't even flinch. There's more to you than meets the eye--get it?" He burst into a giggling fit, pointing at my keys, upon which the remains of an eyeball were still skewered.

"Quite," I said, at my driest, while I used a fold of a dead man's shirt to remove his eye from my key ring.

"Aaaah, lighten up," he said. "Where you two going?"

"To the nearest transit station, and then home, with any luck." I said, hoping he wouldn't come along.

"Then you're getting close--say, how did she do that 'Wicked Witch of the West' business, anyhow? Is there a trick to it?"

"The trick is--," I thought fast, "Actually, only she knows it. Do you speak Japanese?"

"Me?" he laughed again. "No."

"Neither do I, which was how we wound up in the police station to begin with. It was a misunderstanding."

"And I know all about those--say, are there any more like her at home? A sister, maybe, or a cousin? I'd take a cousin."

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Well then--be seeing you," And with a whirl of limbs, he dashed off down the street, skipping and singing something I did not catch.

"There's one who fancies he's a joker," I murmured, watching him go. Suzume tugged at my sleeve again, and I looked back down at her worried little face. "Yes. Let's go home."


	31. Siderodromophobia: The Fear of Trains

Thin, too thin, that scarecrow.

Ragged and shabby;

Yet my heart is no longer my own.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

Somehow we managed to get the rest of the way to the subway unscathed, which was a relief to us both. I had a permanent pass, so all I had to do was buy a single trip card for Suzume, and then persuade her to go through the turnstile and then down the escalator. I had often been frustrated at the bottleneck in traffic when parents tried to get frightened toddlers to step on or off moving walkways, and now I understood exactly what they were going through. At this time of day at least we weren't impeding anyone.

Once we were down on the platform itself, she calmed down, looking around at the tunnel, the high ceiling and the shiny greenish tiles with interest—not to mention the dozen or so people who were also waiting for the train. After observing them surreptitiously for a little while, she looked up at me and said something, raising an arm up as high as it would go, her fingers at a right angle to the rest of her hand. She was commenting on how tall everyone was, compared to her.

I smiled and held my own hand up an inch or two above my head, saying, "Some of them are taller than me, too." I'm five-nine, which is the current average height among American men.

"Iiie," she said, shaking her head, an anxious look crossing her face, but whatever she was trying to communicate was immediately forgotten as the train arrived. As normal as it might be to everyone else, to Suzume it was cataclysmic, a storm, an earthquake, a dragon of steel and fire bearing down upon us. She cried out in terror and tried to run, but I still had her hand. When I would not let go, she clung to my arm, trying to cover her ears as it screeched to a halt.

She jumped when the chimes bonged and the doors slid open—I could feel her trembling—and for a moment I was afraid I would have to pick her up and carry her. "It's all right," I said, trying to soothe her. "Come on, we have to go in there if we're going to get home." She looked deeply distrustful. That Detective Gordon had been able to manage her earlier. Perhaps I lacked the knack—or perhaps she was still wary of me.

However, she let me lead her in and obediently sat down by the window. I sat next to her, and patted her hand reassuringly. The chimes bonged again, the doors slid shut, and Suzume nearly leapt out of her skin. It was very good that this wasn't rush hour, when all the commuters were packed together so tightly that if someone fainted they wouldn't fall. Then the train started moving, and she cried out again. "It's all right. Truly."

After a few minutes in which nothing bad happened, she felt secure enough to relax her grip on my hand, restoring much needed blood flow to my fingers. The train came above ground at that point, and she was able to see the panoramic view of downtown Gotham with its twinkling lights like a city of stars fallen to earth. She gasped in wonder this time, and turned to look at me.

Our eyes met and locked for a long moment. I noticed that hers weren't black as I would have thought, but a deep golden brown, like well steeped tea, or root beer candies.

At that moment, I knew I was in trouble. I knew I should look away, because in primates there is such a thing as a _mating stare_, and looking into each others' eyes for even a brief time stimulated the production of dopamine (and even worse, oxytocin) in the brain, neurotransmitters which induce feelings of attraction and attachment. She was _not_ adorable, I was simply responding to such stimuli as her hip-waist ratio, her symmetrical features, her translucent, flawless skin and thick, lustrous hair—all the indicators that she was healthy, young, and therefore, probably fertile. This was biology, not emotion. We couldn't even hold a proper conversation, for Jung's sake, and for all I knew she was staring at me because she found me fascinatingly hideous.

She was the one who looked away first, ducking her head and turning her face away, exposing her neck. More mating behavior—and a flush of pink suffused her cheeks. Worse and worse. This was terrible. What on earth was I supposed to do with her in the long term? As of this moment, she was completely dependant on me, and I didn't want a dependant.

"Liar." I snapped my head around to look at the seat across from us. There sat the 'Scarecrow', lounging comfortably and insolently, his hands locked behind his burlap covered head. "You _know_ what you _want_ to do with her, it's just that you're afraid to try. You're afraid of rejection, of humiliation, afraid she'll laugh, afraid it'll be Sherry Squires all over again. But this one is completely dependant on you."

I did not need my id or libido or whatever aspect of my psyche this was speaking up in this manner.

"I beg to differ." He sat up and leaned forward. "Remember earlier? You would never have thought of the pumpkins and the slungshot if it wasn't for me. Admit it—I got you out of a very tight spot there."

--there was a certain truth to what he said.

"Damn straight." He laughed. His voice had changed. The Georgian accent was purged from it, replaced by the generic American accent I had learned to put on until it was second nature to me. "And that maniac was right. You didn't flinch. In fact, you _enjoyed_ it. You've been wanting to smash somebody's head in for most of your life—as long as you could say it was justified."

I already knew that—there was no need to restate the obvious.

"Of course I knew. I'm the part of you that wants those things. You're the part that stops me from getting them—except now and then. Often you're right—like when you wouldn't let me bash in Great-Grammie's head with her cane. But then there are other times when you're wrong, like now. You practically_ own_ her. Who else does she have? Who could she meet? I know you're afraid of admitting you have wants and needs, that's why I exist. But this one—."

Forcing myself upon Suzume would be an extremely unwise course of action, beyond merely being wrong and criminal—even it were possible to begin with. Remembering how she unmanned her husband before killing him—not to mention the other half-dozen or so people she had brought to an untimely end, including the man she strangled with her hair less than an hour ago.

"You won't have to rape her." I could hear the eye-roll in the 'Scarecrow's voice. "She'll come to you, because you're the only game in town. All you have to do is be nicer to her than her husband. Show her some kindness, pay her some attention, and she will be demonstrating—gladly, too!—all those illustrations in that sex manual. _Don't worry_ about your relative—lack of experience. Just let the inevitable happen."

I wasn't about to take advantage of her, either. She was vulnerable, fragile—.

"Fine, then," he said with disgust. "You've been ignoring me most of your life. Go ahead and become a prissy pedant who only ever takes it out to piss."

At that point, we reached the Gotham University stop, and with silent dignity I got up and guided Suzume out of the car, leaving behind that mocking travesty, who shook his head and settled back in his seat as the door closed.


	32. Gamophobia: The Fear of Marriage

I listen to him, and think:

What happiness to be his wife.

I would be silent if he ordered me

Just so long as I could listen to him.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

The Gotham University stop always had taxis waiting. For that matter, there was also a shuttle bus, intended to cut down on drunk-driving accidents around the university, free for anyone with a student or faculty ID, but a fifty dollar fine if one vomited. However, given that I had probably excited enough comment around campus by being hauled off to the police station in the company of a Japanese girl of uncertain age, I did not need for anyone to catch me sneaking back on campus with said girl. So we took a cab.

Suzume was only half as scared of her second car ride as she was of her first. When she saw that we had pulled up in front of my house, she exclaimed in relief and practically ran up the sidewalk. I paid the driver, to whom we were just another fare, and went up the walk after her. Once indoors, she immediately took her platform flip-flops off and set them neatly to one side, then insisted I do the same with my shoes, communicating this with gestures, smiles, nods, and encouraging remarks which sounded a lot like the sorts of things I had said to her while trying to get her on the escalator. Instead of "It's all right. It won't hurt you. People use these every day," she was saying _"In a civilized house, everybody takes their shoes off when they come in_." It was all in the tone of voice. I humored her.

The Japanese-English dictionary I had bought earlier was by my reading chair. I had not gone over it in any detail, but I had read the section about the language itself. Anyone who ever thought that English, with its many irregular verbs, counter-intuitive pronunciation and psuedo-phonetic writing system was difficult would be well advised to steer clear of Japanese. To begin with, it had three different writing systems. Hiragana and katakana were fairly straightforward, but the pictorial system, kanji, based upon written Chinese, seemed to be fiendishly intricate. Moreover, the sentence structure of Japanese was completely different, with particles English did not have at all, and there was no equivalent to future tense. Added to which was the difference between Japanese as used by men to that used by women, and it was abundantly clear that we would be having communication problems for some time to come.

Picking up the book, I handed it to her. For a moment she looked pleasantly surprised, but then she frowned, not understanding exactly what this was. Taking it back, I turned to the word 'dictionary' in English, pointed to the definition in Japanese, and her face lit up with comprehension. Snatching it back, she looked up the words for 'where place?', pointing them out to me.

Taking back the dictionary, I looked up 'America', and showed her.

"America?" she read aloud, and looked up at me, not understanding. I looked again. If there was no kanji word in a definition, the part I had read said, then it was probably a word adopted from another language, written phonetically. This was not a dictionary which went into lengthy explanations; it assumed that its users understood the words in their own language. Edo had been a period of isolation, and given when Suzume had first lived and died, she might very well never have heard of America.

Going over to my bookshelves, I took down a work which I knew had a world map in it. "Nihon," I said, pointing to Japan and using the Japanese name for her birthplace. "America," I next pointed to North America, and then "Gotham City."

"Nihon?" she asked. She might never have seen an accurate map, either.

"Nihon," I confirmed, and pointed out where we were again. "America. Gotham City."

She said something which I took to be '_But it's so small!_' referring to the relative size of Japan as opposed to America.

I shrugged. She said something, pointing to herself, then to Japan. Her meaning could not have been clearer. '_I want to go home_.'

This was going to be difficult to explain. I turned on my old computer, only to find that nothing happened. It had lasted through medical school and my internship, only to die on me now, when I finally had a new one—but no internet access, thanks to an incompatible router. I turned on the new one anyway, in the hopes that reality had conveniently rearranged itself so that I could get on line—and it had, in a way. This time the computer picked up my neighbor's unprotected signal.

I was not too proud to piggyback under the circumstances, and I looked up 'major Tokyo newspaper', then clicked on the first I found—which proved to be an English version, but getting to the Japanese one was easy enough. I stepped back and showed it to her, demonstrating how to change the current page by clicking on items. She did not want to believe she was looking at her country as it was now, but I could tell when it sank in. She seemed to shrink inside her own skin, tears welling up which she wiped away with her sleeve. I got her a box of tissues, showing her what they were for by dabbing at my own face. "A—arigato," she said, and took one.

While she read, blotting her face from time to time, I picked up the discarded dictionary and looked up two words to show her. 'Another,' and 'time'.

She took it back and looked up one word, 'How?'

Perhaps it was the wrong decision, but I went and got the scroll Ms. Harris had translated out loud for me the other night, the one which told of the life, death and afterlife of Lady Suzume Murasaki. Hopefully she knew she was dead. How could she not know, given all the unusual things she could now do? Giving it to her, I motioned that I would be in the kitchen, and left her alone to read about her death in privacy.

Looking at the clock on the stove, I was not surprised to learn that it was well after midnight. Oh, well. I put the kettle on for tea, got the shopping list pad from the refrigerator, and started to put down what I saw as necessities. _Language software for both of us_. This was going to be expensive, but it could not be helped. I had taken her money, the five gold obans, and was therefore under an obligation. I would have to explain that to her somehow.

How long that obligation might last, I did not know. Could Suzume become independent and self-supporting in this modern world?

On the pad, I wrote: _Bed—futon? bedding, another set of towels, sofa, another chair for living room. coffee table Rug?_ There was enough kitchen space to fit a table and a couple of chairs in there, so there would be somewhere to sit and eat properly. _Table for kitchen, & chairs…_ There were secondhand furniture stores around, I had seen them, even if I couldn't recall exactly where. As long as it was in good condition, why not buy it used?

_Clothing for Suzume, and other such_…She couldn't go around in that one single robe indefinitely—at least I didn't think she could. As for the 'other such'—would a ghost menstruate? How would I explain what feminine supplies were, and how to use them? I had taken the required unit on obstetrics and gynecology, and fulfilled it without embarrassing myself in any way, but those had not been women I knew.

"Has it occurred to you that you're taking this remarkably well?" asked an all-too-familiar voice. I looked over toward the back door, where the Scarecrow leaned against the frame. "I mean, there's not simply a ghost in your house, but she seems as solid and alive as anyone could be. You're also facing the destruction of your world-view that the supernatural does not exist, and all which that implies—and what are you doing? Standing there making out a shopping list."

"One must be practical." I replied. "I thought we left you behind on the subway."

"No such luck. Where you go, I go. Getting to what I asked you before, hasn't it occurred to you that you're taking this a little too well?"

"I suppose you would rather I was sitting in a corner, rocking and sucking my thumb."

"Not at all," he said. "It's Dr. Crane who's doing that."

"I thought I was Doctor Crane." I regarded him with the stare I reserved for students who came in late.

"No. You're Jonathan. Or Jun-san if you prefer. I'm the Scarecrow, and the last time anybody heard from Dr. Crane, he was calling the police. He ran and hid when Officer Boyer said she thought we were more suspicious than Lady Suzume. Since then, it's been you and me. I prefer it this way, because Dr. Crane has some of the worst pissant ideas in the_ world_."

"How long are you under the impression this has been going on?" I asked him outright.

"The little triumvirate we've got going? Years. But it was the stress of this," he gestured in the direction of the living room, from which muffled sobs were coming, "that fractured us."

"I believe I preferred us unfractured." I said, setting down my pencil and pad.

"I don't. You see, this way, you can't ignore me. Plus maybe there's a chance that we can quash Dr. Crane for good. I mean, _you_ I can tolerate. Him—?" The face under the mask contorted. "I'd spit if this thing had a proper mouth hole. He hates human contact, so he sabotages our every attempt to have a sex life, including choosing clothing that make sure no attractive woman will look at us twice. You aren't even aware of _half_ the stuff he does!" At that point the kettle whistled, and I poured the boiling water over some peppermint tea bags.

"Ka-ra-ane Jun-san?" We looked over at the other doorway, where Suzume stood, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Yes?" I asked. She held the dictionary in her hand, and she came over to show me a particular entry. 'ghost'. Pointing to herself and then to the word again, she said—again, even without knowing her exact words, the meaning was clear. "_I am a ghost_."

"Yes. I mean, hai." I had picked up that 'hai' meant 'yes' somewhere or other.

With much paging and pointing, she asked (I'm simplifying for the sake of brevity.) '_What am I going to do?_'

"There are probably translation sites on line, you know," observed the Scarecrow. "She'd still have to hunt and peck through the book, but you could take a shortcut that way."

I gave him a dirty look and led her back to the living room. My counterpart was right, there were such sites. I found one and typed in, 'You can stay here as long as you need or want to stay. I am a poor man, but there was money in your dowry chest, enough so that with my salary we can live comfortably. You do not have to worry.' I hit enter, and a neat paragraph of Japanese characters appeared.

She read over it, looking at me funny now and then, before picking up the dictionary. It took her some time to find exactly what she wanted to convey, which was, 'Not as your concubine.'

I typed and translated, 'No. I would treat you and respect you as my sister.'

"You're an idiot," the Scarecrow commented. "No, scratch that. It puts the decision back on her."

Again, it took some time for her to find what she wanted to say.

'If you take my dowry then I am your wife.'

I first said that we were strangers to each other. Did she really want to marry a complete stranger?

She said that she had done it before. I said there was no need to, that no one would think the worse of us even if we were living together, and she repeated the part about 'dowry' and 'wife'. I told her my parents had never been married, that my father had denied me and abandoned my mother, that I was illegitimate and therefore below her station, and she said that was terrible and she was very sorry, but as a divorced woman and a ghost she could not afford to be choosy, and she would be my wife anyway.

The Scarecrow, meanwhile, found all this very amusing, and threw in little ribaldries now and then.

(All of this was through the translator on line, for my part, and by way of the dictionary on hers, so it took much longer and was much more complicated than it seemed.)

I asked her if she really wanted to sleep with me. She said that I was clean and that in her experience, as far as sex was concerned she didn't really care either way. If I wanted to, that was fine, but most of the time nothing much happened.

When she said that I was, I admit, taken aback. For once, so was the Scarecrow. When I looked over at him, he said, "Don't look at me. I was hoping for active participation, not a living sex doll."

Then I tried to explain that I could not, as things stood at that moment, legally marry her. She did not exist. I explained, or tried to, about birth certificates and passports, about immigration visas and marriage licenses. She, on her part, just kept the dictionary open and pointed to the word 'wife,' over and over again.

What did she expect me to do, I asked her.

That was when she began to cry in earnest. For the second time that night, she dissolved, only this time without leaving a mess behind.

"Maybe you should have asked her why she was so insistent about your being married, instead of trying to talk her out of it," suggested the Scarecrow.

"And you didn't bring this up because…?"

"I shouldn't have to think of everything." He chuckled and disappeared.

I tried calling Suzume back, but she wasn't answering, and finally I went to bed.


	33. Oneirophobia: The Fear of Dreams

How brilliant and real my dream!

Yet when I wake, it lasts

No longer than the dew upon the grass.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

Translated from the Japanese.

Suzume:

My thoughts were like a house after an earthquake, all thrown around. It was all I could do to sort out the broken from the whole; putting them in order was beyond me. Night was beginning to yield to day when I lay down next to the man with whom my life was, for reasons known only to the gods, now linked. Jun-san was asleep and unaware that I was there, which was good, for I could watch him without embarrassment. He was the first European I had ever looked at so closely—the first I had ever _wanted_ to look at so closely. My father had served the shogun for a time as governor of Nagasaki, where foreign traders are allowed to land, and he said the Europeans were paradoxical creatures who knew how to make the most amazing mechanisms of metal, glass and wood—yet could not understand the benefit of simply dipping up a pailful of sea water and washing themselves every day, ridding their bodies of odors and of the dangerous and invisible miasmas which cause disease. They ate rotten food _on purpose_, and grew enormous on it, but it only added to their general stench.

The amazing mechanisms I have seen with my own eyes, touched, even used—a stove which needs no fuel to heat food, a box like a miniature ice house to keep food and drink cold and fresh, the carts and sledges which carry people around the city—and perhaps most of all, the ingenious book with a page which lights up and changes upon commands entered on those little squares. They outstrip anything I had seen at home even as much as Edo outstripped Kokomun-to Island.

Now I knew the reason for that: the Edo which I had known was long dead, almost as long as I myself. Edo was transformed into a new city, one called Tokyo, as the phoenix of China is said to be reborn of itself, more wondrous and strange every time.

(I was dead. I could remember my death, of the misery which preceded it, and then a moment when the pain stopped. And then—I was myself, I was still myself— but it was like a dream. That scroll Jun-san showed me had brought some back, but not all.)

What was I transformed into? A ghost? Yes. To myself I seemed alive, for I felt hunger and thirst, I could weep and bleed and hurt—and more. Was I like the Yukie-Onna, the ghost woman of the snow, who freezes to death unwary travelers? One day she saw a handsome young man lost in the snow, and spared his life on the condition that he tell no one about her as long as he lived. She loved him, and in mortal guise she married him, bore him children, lived with him—until he broke his word.

Or was I like O-tsuyu of the peony lantern? She went to the man she loved after she died, lay with him, and drained away his life.

I would rather be the Yukie-Onna.

Which reminded me of the dispute we had earlier—that he would not marry me.

That I should marry a European—! Jun-san was not like those my father knew, however. He washed all over every day, and his hands and face even more often, so perhaps among the goods exported from Japan were the less tangible and more important benefits of civilization. In sleep, like this, he looked happier than when awake… I was glad he told me about his birth, secrets like that fester. His father should have acknowledged him--but as the first boy born in his mother's family for three generations, he must have been cherished and loved, the long awaited heir to carry on the name who would honor and remember his ancestors.

His eyes no longer looked deformed to me, with their odd shape, that crease in the lid. As for their color, which was like the autumn sky, or like certain morning glories—that had astonished me from the start. I had always heard that Europeans had huge noses, and skin which was either moon-white or as red as a boiled crab. His nose wasn't huge, and his skin was pink. Rather than the yellow or red hair I had read of, his was dark brown, like roasted tea leaves.

Nor did he have dog's feet—I lifted the covers at the end of the ridiculously high elevated platform he used as a bed. Yes, his feet were normal human feet. I had always heard that was why Europeans wore boots with heels on them, because they had feet like a dog's, and needed the heels to help support their weight. How did these stories get started?

As for his other features—he was not ill favored, not at all. Even though he wore a strange wire device on his face during the day, with pieces of glass set in it. He had a well-shaped mouth, high cheekbones—I did not know if a European woman would think him handsome, but if he were properly dressed in hakama (wide trousers) and haori (men's kimono jacket, hip or thigh length) and if his head were shaved at the crown like a grown man's— yes, he would be handsome.

How did I appear to him? Was I ugly? Is that why he would not accept me as his wife? When I was alive in my proper place and time, I was neither too short nor too tall, and the only fault in my figure was that I had flat breasts. I couldn't help that any more than my husband could help being a fool…Here I was an insignificant little thing. I was never one of the famed beauties at court, but no one ever called me plain or ugly. I felt plain and ugly now--if I dwelt upon it, I might cry again at any moment. I never thought I was unattractive, even though Minoru didn't find me so. It was a misalliance all around, beginning to end.

Yet when Jun-san looked at me earlier, when we were traveling through the city in that sledge—I thought I saw admiration in his eyes. Perhaps it was all my imagination.

Jun-san must think me a fool. To fob me off with the title of sister—! What is a dowry for, but to purchase for a woman a secure home, the protection of a husband, and the dignity of being a wife? Even if such security, protection, and dignity are no better than the man whose name it buys.

The bitter irony is that a man will squander his wealth on courtesans, prostitutes, geisha, and other such women—yes, and on pretty young men as well, plying them with every expensive trifle they fancy, paying for the privilege of a hour, a smile, or a maidenhead—but the woman he marries, the one who will share his bed, bear his heirs, sew his underclothes—she must bring a fortune with her, cash in hand and all the furnishings of a household besides, or the match is off. The virginity of an apprentice geisha is sold for many koku, but the marriage bed of a girl of good family is made of money paid by her father.

And heaven help her should she need a new dress within the first ten years! She is sure to be railed at for her selfish extravagance—when his mistress would not deign to wear a gown so cheap and drab to walk to the bathhouse and back.

It is not right, it is not fair, but it is how the world works. I will not be robbed. In all else I am lost, confused, as frightened as a child in this world but in this matter I know what is due me. Those oban are mine, earned by years of service. Earned by years of silence! Why should he take them and give nothing in return?

I don't even know if he tells the truth when he says he is poor. This house is not the house of a poor man. Neither the shogun nor the emperor could command luxuries such as the ones that fill it. His clothing is worn and shabby—but he has hundreds of books. He has not even one servant to attend upon him, not even an old woman to cook the meals and do the washing. He cooks for himself! Yet he can afford to eat meat and fish nearly every day. He is a scholar and a teacher, for I have seen him marking papers, and they are never paid well. Does he lie?

And why did he have both of us dragged down to the magistrate's? Clearly the constabulary had just raided an unlicensed brothel of the foulest and most degraded kind. If the magistrate with the moustache had not been so perceptive, or so busy, trouble would have followed—trouble did follow. Enough of thinking about that, I will only make myself angry again.

Above all else, what am I to make of the fact that his name is Jun? _His_ name was Junaemon. And he is too thin, and poorly dressed, as was my scarecrow of a scholar—and they _both_ are scholars. Has the cycle of rebirth tossed him in my way, as far from home as I am, on these far shores? How many hours did I spend dreaming of a life with Junaemon?

Where can I find an answer? How can I make sense of these disorderly thoughts, and calm my mind?


	34. Frigophobia: The Fear of Frigidity

Like the snow,

my thoughts of him

blanket the ugly world.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

Again I woke with the vague impression that someone had slept with me, but again there was no physical evidence, not even a long black hair. Was Suzume nocturnal, like so many ghosts and supernatural beings? The sun had been up for at least two hours, and she was nowhere to be seen. That was an argument in favor of her being a creature of the night, but an even stronger argument against it was sitting by the stove once again, in the form of a fresh pot of tea and a smoking-hot omelet filled with rice and vegetables. If it had not come off the griddle less than five minutes before, I knew nothing about food.

After saying 'Arigato' loudly, I headed off to work. Along with seeing nothing of Suzume, I hadn't seen the Scarecrow as yet that morning. Perhaps he too was nocturnal.

Or perhaps not. "I can think of an argument in favor of marrying Suzume," said my alter? Nemesis? Thorn in my side?, falling into step next to me. He looked no more wholesome in the light of day than he did by the artificial light of midnight.

I was not about to be seen talking to myself as I crossed campus. He continued as if I had filled in the space with the appropriate question. "Just think of what it'll do to Grandmother. She'll shit a brick."

Although inelegantly phrased, the Scarecrow had a point. Great-Grandmother no longer counted, being far advanced in Alzheimer's, but both she and my grandmother grew up in the Deep South at a time when 'civil rights' meant signaling properly at all intersections. In fact, when mandatory integration came into law, Great-Grandmother withdrew her only child from public school lest she be contaminated by contact with other races. I had heard more than my share of bigotry and prejudice around the dinner table long before I understood what they meant. Unencumbered by fact or empathy, not to mention the basic tenets of Christianity, they smeared everyone who was not Caucasian, English-speaking, nominally Christian, and preferably Southern. Desperate as I was for approval, I even parroted their hate-filled talk back at them—memories which now fill me with shame.

Their opinions as to which group was worst changed with the tides; one day it would be 'Portoreekans', their blanket name for anyone Hispanic, the next, Jews. The Japanese came in for their fair share of contempt, primarily for ruining the American economy but for various other reasons as well.

However, one belief of theirs never altered: mixed marriages were not only tantamount to bestiality, they were extremely dangerous, because biracial children stood to inherit the intelligence of the Caucasian parent and the cunning wiles of the inferior race. Being presented with an Asian granddaughter-in-law would cause her to have heart palpitations.

The idea of marrying to spite my grandmother held a certain appeal, but not enough. What bothered me about the proposition, (or proposal), Suzume had made to me was—well, was that it had all the passion and appeal of a bowl of cold oatmeal. The idea of marrying someone who regarded the physical side of marriage with utter indifference—turned me off.

"Suit yourself." the Scarecrow shrugged. "Setting aside, for the moment, that if you jilt Suzume she might well emasculate you before killing you, haven't you always had a healthy contempt for the breed of doctor who marries in order to have someone to put him through med school while also having his children and taking care of the housework as well? You know the ones I mean, the kind who dump their starter wives once they start making real money because their wives aren't young and sexy anymore."

I was familiar with that particular species. Who was not? I did not see the connection between them and myself.

"Let me spell this out to you. You plan to sell those obans without Suzume's permission and consent, and pocket the proceeds—despite the fact that you didn't earn them, _she_ did, and you don't own them. She does. You also begrudge having to support her _with her own money_, or you wouldn't be thinking about how long you'll be obligated to her and whether or not she can become self-supporting. Add two kids and fifteen years into the bargain, and you'll be screwing her over just like those doctors you claim to despise."

I was beginning to feel aggrieved. If there were three of us, why couldn't 'Dr. Crane' come out and lend his support to me in this argument?

"He's still going 'bibble, bibble, bibble' in his corner." The Scarecrow made lip bouncing gestures with a finger in front of where his mouth should have been. "You'd better hope he comes around soon, or when you get up in front of a class, you'll be shit-out-of-luck. He's the one who handles public speaking."

I attached no credibility to the Scarecrow's statements whatsoever.

In a foul mood even before eight-thirty in the morning, I entered the Science building and started to go to my office, only to be stopped by the Psych Department Head, Dr. Eagleton. Calling to me from down the hall, he said, "Ah—Crane. Good. Could you step in here for a moment?"

_Here it comes,_ I thought_. My contract will not be renewed for next year. I've known this moment was coming for months; best to get it over with and then start looking for a place to stay once the academic year is over_. My shoulders slumping involuntarily, I trudged back down to the Head's office thinking of Shakespeare's Richard III: _There is no creature loves me; and if I die, no soul shall pity me_.

I was surprised to find a familiar stranger awaiting me: Alasdair Kemp, lecturer in Japanese History at Oxbridge University. "Here he is," Dr. Eagleton said jovially, which was not a natural or becoming attitude for him, "our young Dr. Crane. I never knew you were an amateur historian, Crane."

Neither did I, but I covered my astonishment. "As you said, sir, I am only an amateur. This gentleman is—?"

"Kemp. Of Oxbridge—and a fellow admirer of the Lady Suzume Murasaki." He had a rich, plummy voice, and he said her name with the reverence a believer reserves for their favorite saint. Yes, this was one of those romantics who falls in love through time, all right. "A pleasure, Dr. Crane. It is far too rare that I get to speak to someone who knows of her."

I could only wonder _exactly_ what he knew of her. "The pleasure is mine," I said, extending a hand.

"Who did you say?" asked Dr. Eagleton. "Lady Murasaki—didn't she write The Tale of Genie?"

Kemp knew better than to correct him. "Yes— however, the Lady Murasaki we're speaking of is one of her descendants. She died young, and has consequently been overlooked by recorded history—until now, that is."

"Interesting," Eagleton said politely. "How did she happen to come to your attention, then?"

"It was nearly forty years ago," Kemp reminisced, stretching out in the office as if it were his own. "I could have been no older than Dr. Crane here, at the time. I was assisting in the renovation of a small monastery on one of the southern islands, when up among the rafters of what had been quarters for guests, I discovered a jacket. It was almost one solid mass of dirt, having been stowed up there almost two hundred years before. There was a letter of introduction in one of the sleeves, a letter from a tutor who ran a school on Kokomun-to Island to a minor official of the Imperial Examinations concerning a scholar named Junaemon Shibuichi—the owner of the jacket. Upon unfolding it completely, I turned it inside out, and the lining tore loose. It had been a winter jacket of dark grey silk with a bronze and green pattern of pine trees on it, very conservative, with a thick quilted lining for warmth. The inner lining, that part which would never be seen until and unless the garment was taken apart, had words embroidered on it. I began to read it, and I realized it too, was a letter, from a woman, the Lady Suzume Murasaki, to Junaemon.

"More than that, it was a love letter, a missive of unrequited, unspoken passion from a married woman to her secret love—not her lover, but the love of her life all the same. It was the only love letter she ever wrote, and it was never read. Not until I found it."

She had been in love? Suddenly the practical, matter-of-fact approach Suzume showed toward marriage and sex was not as simple as it had seemed.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long to write, but this week began with a major train crash, literally. I wasn't in it, nor was anyone I know, thank God, but it has had an impact on life in general. Since then I've been taking the bus while they fix things up, and it adds two hours to my commuting time each day so I've been getting home exhausted. Things should be back to normal soon.


	35. Zelophobia: The Fear of Jealousy

Emptier than baby clothes which were never worn—

Emptier than the basket where a pet shall never again sleep—

Such is my heart now that he is gone.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

"What an extraordinary story," Dr. Eagleton remarked. He did not seem particularly interested; his inquiry had been made as a matter of form. "And you, Doctor Crane?"

For a moment I was tongue-tied, for I had so much to conceal and suddenly, no idea how to do so effectively. Instinctively, I did not want him to know I had gotten the chest open, much less know what had come out of it. How to get out of this…?

Then something odd happened. I heard the Scarecrow say, his voice quite distinct and very close to me, 'Let me handle this; you have no idea how to lie any better than you did when you were four and Great-Grammie asked you if you ate all the strawberries.' I don't know how to explain what he did other than to say that he shoved me aside and took over my mouth. I was still there, still in my body, seeing with my eyes, hearing with my ears, yet he was the one in control of what I said and did.

"If you recall, I come from Georgia," the Scarecrow said smoothly, "and my mother's family was once quite well-to-do. The ancestor who made the family fortune built himself a mansion to fit his new status. Since he pulled himself up out of a Dublin slum, he had no idea of what was good taste, so he left it all to his bride. At the time, it was the fashion to have 'theme' rooms—an Italian Renaissance library, a Gothic Revival bedroom, and an Oriental parlor were among them, and my however many great-grandmother was nothing if not fashionable By the time I came along, almost everything of real value was gone, but there were some bits and pieces left. Among them were some scroll paintings by an unknown artist and a lengthy scroll which my ancestress had been told was an epic poem. It wasn't.

"What it turned out to be was an account written by an anonymous scribe telling of the life and death of Lady Suzume Murasaki."

I was impressed by the Scarecrow's deft and seamless weaving together of truth and lies. Yes, there had been an Oriental parlor in the mansion and it had come about exactly as he said. It was completely plausible and no one would be able to prove I hadn't found the scroll exactly as he—as I—as _we_ were saying.

"Her life and death?" Kemp snapped. "What was she doing from the ages of twelve to nineteen?"

"Serving as a lady-in-waiting at the Shogun's court," I/he replied. This duality was—almost familiar, as if I had been functioning like this for years before recent events had forced the division the Scarecrow said had happened.

"Yes…Dr. Crane, I _must_ have that—I mean, I must _see_ that document." Kemp was trying to transfix me with a glare as a lepidopterist transfixes a moth with a pin.

Hell, no. "I'm afraid that isn't possible," I/we said. "It's old and somewhat fragile, so I didn't bring it with me to Gotham City. In any case, I would hesitate before I allowed someone I didn't know well to handle it and go over it—I'm sure you're the same way concerning the jacket and its lining."

"It's not in Gotham—where is it, then?" he asked.

"With all due respect, sir, our acquaintance is not even of five minutes' duration," the Scarecrow said, putting a blank, surprised expression on our face and a hint of indignation in our voice. "That's very sudden to be asking so much of a total stranger. If you'll excuse me, Dr. Eagleton, I have a class to teach." I/we shifted my briefcase to the other hand and nodding to my superior, made to leave the room.

"Wait!" Kemp was on his feet. "You're right—I have asked a great deal of you and offered you nothing. I apologize. Let me—," he paused, seeming to cast about in his mind, "let me give you a copy of the letter from the jacket. You have e-mail, of course? Of course you do."

"I have to go," I replied. Dr. Eagleton looked slightly miffed, as well he might, considering that his distinguished visitor had no interest in him at all and had only used the department head as a means of getting to me. "I'm on the University website. Good day, Dr. Eagleton. Good bye, Mr. Kemp."

_Well_, I thought as I escaped down the hall, _if Suzume wants to get married so badly, there is a man who would take her_—and yet…if I had been disappointed by her appearance at first glance, since she did not match the idealized image I had of her after only a few days, how badly would he be disappointed after nearly forty years? More, there was something wrong about Kemp, something even I found creepy. And if I found him creepy…

_Are you still there?_ I asked of Scarecrow mentally.

"Always and forever, in some form," he replied. He was once again outside my/our body.

_How can I reintegrate us_?

"How the hell should I know? _You're_ the psychologist." he retorted.

_If we are on some level the same person, then we share the same intelligence and have access to the same information and memories. Don't you have a clue_?

"We happen to be good at different things. Look, usually two of us work together, majority rules. I'm good at spinning lies, doing things you want to do but can't admit, all sorts of fun stuff. The only time I ever manage it is when I can convince you to go along with it. You're the psychologist, you cook and do things like that, you're secretly a dreamer and a romantic even though you won't admit it. Dr. Crane, who has a stick permanently up his ass, handles the teaching, the interviews—which is why they turn out so badly, by the way—he has just as big a problem with socializing as we do, except that he pretends he doesn't and he can't hide his contempt for people."

_You seem good at socializing. What about how you handled Kemp just now?_

"I can't do it for real. All I can do is fake it."

By that time I/we had reached the classroom and I went in. I had been cutting it a bit fine time-wise that morning, and the encounter with Eagleton and Kemp had put me over the line into being late for class, by about thirty seconds. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," I said automatically—and then I froze.

I had no idea what to say. Or do. I looked out at the three dozen or so students who made up my Psych 101 class and my mouth was as arid as a desert. Of course I knew the material inside and out, but as for lecturing about it—? I felt hideous. I felt naked. I was on the verge of a panic attack.

_Dr. Crane_! I yelled mentally. _Dr. Crane, I need you. Get the hell out of your corner and talk._

"No," came the answer after an agonizing eternity which lasted less than a second in real time. "I cannot, because the person who is calling me does not, strictly speaking, exist, and therefore responding would be insane."

_This is not the time to parse the nature of reality. This is the time to teach Psych 101. Listen—everything that is going on can be explained rationally_.

"There is no such thing as the supernatural."

_Yes. You are right. There isn't. Since Suzume exists, she is part of nature and therefore can be explained. As a scientist, it is your job—your duty—to find out what the scientific reason is for her survival and you can't do that if you're sucking your thumb! SO GET OUT HERE!_

For the second time that day, I felt myself being mentally shunted aside, and with a figurative sigh of relief, listened to myself say, "Now, I trust you have all done the assigned reading—Mr. Payton, is there a particular reason why you're looking at your crotch and giggling? Because of course you wouldn't be texting in class."

Things were back to relative normality.

Did I really sound like such a pompous twit when I lectured?

Now I had to face the problem of reintegrating my personality from the inside out. This was the sort of issue for which I would recommend someone get professional help, but that was out of the question. If I explained everything to a peer in the field I would soon find myself with more problems than I had begun with. No…What had prompted the break? Internal conflict. If I could get all of my selves to agree once more, perhaps—and I was aware this was a substantially sized perhaps—the _we_ could once again become _I_ and I could get on with life.

However, I was sidetracked by what I found waiting for me when I went to the office between classes and checked my email. Kemp had wasted no time at all: the translation of love letter Suzume wrote to Junaemon was waiting as an attached file, in my in-box. I printed it out and took it along to my next class, because they were taking a test that day and I would have the chance to read it then.

* * *

To the Honorable Scholar Junaemon:

As I sew this jacket my thoughts are of the one who will wear it. If my feelings could be quilted into the lining with these words, it would be one of the marvels of this age, for it would be so warm of its own accord that winter would yield to spring wherever you might go, so soft that the thickest futon would feel as though it were filled with jagged stones. If the love I feel for you were visible to the eye, I fear you would become the target of thieves, for it would be richer than the purest gold, more dazzling to the eye than a peacock in its glory.

You will wonder now: who could it be who has written with her needle inside this jacket? The Lady Suzume Murasaki gave it to me that I might not disgrace the island, my tutor and my name by showing up to the Examination in rags, but surely she did not make it? Yes, she did, and I am she. With my own hands, I and no other began this garment within a week of the first time I ever saw you, and no other hand has so much as sewn one stitch of it.

It has been one of the greatest joys of my life of late to make this for you, and as the months have passed and it has come together, I have often held it in my arms, wishing that I might hold you while you wear it, helped you to take it off, and then held you closer still.

But when did I first see you? Spring was yielding to summer, and the paulownia trees were in bloom. The grove along the north road, near the stone shrine, that was where you were, reading under a tree. I looked out from the window of my palanquin, and saw—you. You were thin, so thin that your cheekbones might have sliced through your skin, and your clothing was faded and frayed, and you looked like nothing so much as a scarecrow….

Do not think I despised you for that, no, for I did not. I loved you in that instant, and every hour since. My heart hurt to think you were hungry—that you had any need unfulfilled which I could satisfy, had I only my freedom.

From then on, I have lived not on food, drink and air, but on my love for you. I can live without being loved, but I cannot live unless I love, and I love you. The arrangement I came to with your teacher was all that I might sometimes hear your voice, and dream I was your wife and lived under your roof. This house of my husband's, large as it is, is not large enough that I can rest in tranquility, knowing that it stretches over him and his mother. Yet I know that if even we lived in only one room, when I laid our bedding out at night I could sleep as deeply and peacefully as a child, could I but stretch out my hand and touch you. Did you ever wonder why I preferred you read such sad passages? It was that I might weep as freely as I wished, and have no one remark upon it as strange.

Waking and sleeping, I have thought of what I should do if I were ever free. I shall never be, I know, for reasons with which I shall not burden you. I would find out where you lived, and send a go-between to you to say: have you ever thought of marrying? I know of a widow, young still, who was unhappy in her first marriage and hopes to find a measure of happiness in a second match. Although not wealthy, she is comfortably situated, and no one living or dead can impeach her honor. Should you go to watch the fireworks over the river in two weeks time, I am sure you would see her there…

This jacket will soon be completed. I have drawn out the making of it until you are near leaving Kokomun-to, very likely forever. In a few days, I will fit this lining into the garment and stitch it closed. Then I shall wrap it in paper and tell one of my maids to give it to you after you have read, for charity's sake. I shall never look you in the eye, or speak to you, or even say your name, for my mother-in-law's eyes are sharp and her ears sharper. If you ever find this letter, if you ever read it, it will not be for a long time, years perhaps. I may be dead by then. Whether I am or no, I expect nothing from you. Do not seek me out; I would not for the world endanger you. I ask nothing of you, not even that you think well of me. All it is for, is tell you this:

You are loved.

I beg that you will overlook the inadequacy of this letter. It is the first love letter I have written, and I do not foresee that I shall ever write another. While you are alive in this world, as your heart beats, so shall mine. Live, thrive, be happy. Marry, father children, love your wife and grow old with her. I want that for you—I desire your happiness more than my own. I care not how many nights, how many years shall pass. These lives we lead now shall end, and the wheel of rebirth shall bring us together again. Until it does, until I lie in your arms and know what it is to find joy in the embrace of love, until this aching and burning of my heart, soul and body are satisfied—

I shall remain Suzume Murasaki.

* * *

I had to take out my handkerchief to wipe my eyes before I was done reading it. "Allergies," I mumbled to a student who looked at me oddly when she brought her paper to me when she was done, but I don't think she believed me. I wouldn't have.


	36. Heterophobia: Fear of the Opposite Sex

Love fades, they say;

Better to marry

for more tangible things

Money, which can be spent

Land, which can be sold

Connections, which are hateful

If one is always left with nothing

I had rather marry for love.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

I put the translation aside. It was for the best that I had read it here and now, and not, say, at home. If Suzume had been there I might very well have done something...imprudent. The truth was, that letter was not unlike Shakespeare's sonnet number 116, the one that begins 'Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments.' One simply couldn't read it without feeling a deep well of yearning, the desire to love like that and to be loved like that.

Although it did solve the problem of what to say to Suzume that night should she bring up the topic of marriage again, I had another problem to contend with: Kemp. His obsession had already led him beyond the pale, and he showed no signs of stopping any time soon. To that end, at lunchtime I took out the recorder which Ms. Harris' translation of the scroll was on, listened to it again to be sure no mention of the day or date existed on it, then converted it into an MP3 file and attached it to the following e-mail.

_Dear Mr. Kemp;_

_I have received and read the translation of the jacket letter which you sent to me. I did find it of great interest. However, I never requested that you send it or anything to me, and I never agreed to send or share anything with you. It is now Wednesday; since Saturday, when the auction took place, you have invaded my privacy, pursued me to my workplace, stolen from me, and intruded upon me again when you returned what you stole (the mere fact that you returned my property unharmed is no more a defense than that offered by joy-riders who steal a car)._

_Despite the protestations of contrition in the note you included with the scroll, you did not wait for me, the injured party, to contact you. Instead you used your credentials to force yourself into my way at work, possibly jeopardizing my career. Dr. Eagleton was offended when you dropped your pretence of interest in him or the department, and that may have repercussions on me. I am only an assistant professor, Mr. Kemp, without tenure and with precious little status. You are safe, a distinguished visitor from a foreign country with no concern as to where you will be looking for a job next term._

_In short, you have made yourself so offensive that I can only wonder what you may do next in your obsessive pursuit of the Lady Suzume. Do you already know where I live? Will I return home to find you lying in wait upon my doorstep, or will you have my house burgled instead? You now have my e-mail address--what will you do with that? Why did you let me win the auction on Saturday? It is now apparent to me that you deliberately lost, since you have more resources than I to draw upon. Was it to track me down and find out what I know?_

_I do not consider myself under any obligation to you, but in the interest of fairness, I have attached a file with a recorded translation of the life and death of Lady Suzume. Please do not contact me again. I do not know you. I know already that I cannot trust you. It is for me to decide whether to contact you or not in the future. Any attempt to do so on your part will be regarded as a hostile gesture._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. Jonathan Crane_

I sent it with a sense of vindication, hoping, rather than believing it would have any effect, and went off to the library. One advantage of being faculty rather than a student is that one can check out anything one likes for an indefinite period of time, and I found a variety of items which would, I hoped, foster greater understanding between myself and my house guest--or house ghost.

My other selves were being quiet at the moment. I wondered if that was good or bad. Far be it for me to stir them up when I had some privacy for a moment--as long as 'Dr. Crane' would be there when I needed him for the next class.

After classes were over, I went back to the shopping center where I had bought my new laptop, making another couple of stops along the way while I was there. When I returned home, it was with several shopping bags, one of which had everything (or so the salespeople had told me) I needed to get on line.

I unlocked my front door to be greeted by the sounds of what was possibly a cat dying by inches in the kitchen, or else by the worst singer in the world. Very likely traditional Japanese music was very different from modern day American music, but unless it was a complete 180 from what we thought of as music, Suzume had a truly dreadful singing voice. "Murasaki O-Suzume-sama?" I called, shedding my shoes.

The song broke off, and Suzume rushed in, looking pretty and flushed and slightly flustered. "Ka-ra-ne Jun-san!", she began, and went on for a while in Japanese which I interpreted to mean, '_I'm sorry I wasn't waiting to greet you when you got home, but I didn't know when you were going to get home, and--._'

"It's quite all right, you don't have to apologize," I interrupted her. "Here--this is for you." I handed her the largest bag I was carrying. This was all part of a plan to at least temper her resolve concerning marriage.

She took it, asking, '_This is for me?_' Setting it down, she took out a print top in shades of straw, coral and blue. 'You bought me clothing?' There was a petite-size shop in the same strip mall as the electronics store, and before I went to get my new router, I first stopped in so Scarecrow and I could tell a sympathetic saleswoman about my friend who had just flown in from Japan only to find her luggage had gone to parts unknown. There was no telling when or if it would resurface, and she was currently suffering from jet-lag, so I thought I would surprise her when she woke up. Two or three day's worth of clothing should be enough to see her through, but the problem was I didn't know her exact size. However, she was four foot ten and weighed about ninety pounds, give or take, and she didn't care for anything too revealing or provocative. Could the saleswoman help me? She could. I went to the electronics store, and when I came back, she had a mini-wardrobe assembled from components which didn't rely on exact fit.

One has certain expectations about how a young lady will act when someone unexpectedly gives her a lot of new clothing all at once, and Suzume fulfilled those expectations. She pulled every garment out of the bag, exclaiming over it, feeling the fabric and holding it against herself. Including, embarrassingly, the thongs, which perplexed her. Maybe she had seen enough of a cross-section of the female population of Gotham last night to figure out how the other articles of clothing were worn, but not those.

Thongs as in underwear, not flip-flops, which I had no idea the saleswoman had included. Yes, I had said everything, but--oh, I did not need images of her in those lacy bits behind my eyelids. _Speak for yourself_, the Scarecrow said in my ear.

Suzume held --did one call a thong a pair, as one might a more substantial panty?-- up to eye level, looking at with the expression of someone doing a Sudoku on the subway. Then her face brightened and she reached up to put it in her hair.

"Uh, no." I said, and picked up the print catalog the saleswoman had included in the bag, flipping through the pages until I found the one with models wearing that particular item.

'_You've got to be kidding me_,' she said, or so I interpreted. For a moment I was afraid I was going to get slapped again. '_No way am I wearing those!_'

"No, you put other clothes on over them," I explained, picking up a skirt and gesturing. "Why don't you go upstairs and try them on?" She got the idea and dashed lightly up to the second floor, her arms full.

While she was occupied otherwise, I set up the router. This model was advertised as being self-configuring, and for once, it was almost true. In the twenty minutes it took Suzume to try everything on and be ready to come down and show off a new outfit, I actually did have the router set up, a new network established, and got on line.

I was just getting a question translated when she came down wearing a knee length skirt the color of ripe cantaloupe with a white sleeveless knit top which was so thin it was almost see-through and so clinging she might as well have been naked. Since bras were difficult to fit without knowing an exact size, the saleswoman hadn't even tried to choose some, and I could definitely state that in terms of support, Suzume did not need one. I could further state that she was not _flat_ chested. Small-breasted, such as would fit into an old fashioned champagne glass, yes, but present in their proper place and with hazelnut sized nipples. I managed to refocus on her face before she noticed. Holding out a lacey crocheted sweater , she asked (again, I interpreted from context,) how it was worn. She couldn't tell which end was up.

I turned it around for her, and helped her put it on, moving her heavy pony tail of hair out of the way. There was no way to avoid touching her, my knuckles grazed her neck, and I could smell her hair. All it smelled of was soap, the same soap I showered with every morning, so why should my hands tremble? Yet tremble they did. This was beyond a doubt the most erotically and emotionally charged moment I'd experienced in years, a fact of which I was painfully aware.(As would Suzume be if she stepped backward into me. Any pretense that my feelings toward her were strictly brotherly would go up in flames like a dry California hillside in the wildfire season.)

I hadn't felt like this since I used to help Sherry Squires with her homework, back in high school--and I wasn't a callow teen anymore, but a grown man. It was that letter she'd written, talking of 'finding joy in the embrace of love'--well, that and the knowledge of what she was and wasn't wearing under those clothes.

Sensing something, Suzume turned her head to look up and me, and she was lovely. 'Do something, damn it!' said the Scarecrow--'No, the hell with it, I'm fed up with waiting for you.'

It was the Scarecrow who kissed her, but the lips were mine.

Unfortunately, so was the groin she kneed.

My plans had just officially gone awry.

* * *

A/N: Traditional singing, as Suzume would have learned, would sound to us like she couldn't carry a song in a bucket. Really.


	37. Philematophobia:The Fear of Kissing

If I cooked my own flesh

To feed my mother-in-law--

She would complain about the flavor.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

When Jun-san laid hands upon me, I remembered what Sasaki-san had always said to do should a man who was not my husband make an unwelcome advance upon me, and I brought my knee up sharply. It worked wonderfully well; I think Sasaki-san would have been proud of me. Jun-san doubled up immediately, clutching himself, then sank to his knees and toppled over very slowly, moaning.

But then he did not move, and I began to be afraid I had hurt him very badly, perhaps permanently, so I ran to the cold box and wrapped some ice in a towel to put on the injury. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that so hard," I apologized. Although we did not speak the same language, we still managed to understand what the other meant—part of the time. "Please forgive me—but I knew all that about respecting me as a sister was nonsense."

He groaned. "I never meant to hurt you that badly." I said, moving the ice so no single spot would get too cold, "You must understand that if I am not your wife I am not about to submit to any bizarre European sexual practices. I suppose that since you are European then to you mashing your lips down on somebody else's and moving them around must seem normal. At home, though, that is the sort of thing for which a man goes to a prostitute." I could not imagine Minoru kissing me—our marital relations, when they took place at all, were enough of an indignity without having him in my face like that. Especially when he had been drinking to excess.

Although that touch of Jun-san's lips did not entirely disgust me…

It seemed to me important to explain exactly why I had kneed him, so I got the dictionary and did so. By the time I was certain he understood, he had recovered enough to sit up, although he did not look very comfortable. Also, Jun-san looked at me strangely at the beginning, but then sadly, and apologized.

He gestured for me to bring him that astonishing book with the page that changes, and I got it. He tapped at the squares and then turned it so I could read: 'Who is Junaemon?'

"How did you learn of him?" I asked. The shock of seeing that beloved name was almost as great as when he kissed me.

He took back the book, tapped some more, and showed me: 'You made a jacket for him.' It was the wrong word for the kind of jacket, but that hardly mattered.

"Yes," I said.

Turning the book to face him,—and why could I not use that book to translate my words as he did his? It was so much quicker than hunting through a dictionary—he tapped and showed me, 'You embroidered a letter into it. It was a love letter. You loved him.'

I seized the dictionary and through it, asked him, "How did you learn of it?"

'I met a man who found the jacket. He gave me a translation of the letter.'

I could not look at Jun-san for shame. My face turned scalding hot, and I turned away. Those words I sewed in secret, one at a time, were never meant for anyone's eyes, not even those of Junaemon-san, or I would have made them easier to find. All my life I have striven to do my duty, first to my parents and my name, then to my young lady the Future Consort and the Shogun—and his mother. When I was married to Minoru I did my best, insofar as I was able, given my barrenness, to be a good wife and daughter-in-law.

As a woman, the things I do for myself, that I want for myself, are selfish, meaningless and empty. My fulfillment is achieved through the things I do for others, or so I have been told, and perhaps it is so, for in making that jacket for Junaemon-san I was happier than I had been for years. Was my love for him selfishness, then? Be like a well, I was told. A well provides for all in the house, uncomplaining. But even the deepest wells run dry when a drought goes on too long. Where are the rains that will replenish me? Every word I sewed was a drop of water to ease my parched heart.

Jun-san reached out and touched my elbow to get my attention. When I looked at him, he held out the book. 'Don't be embarrassed.' it said. 'It was a beautiful letter. If I marry, I would want my wife to feel that way about me. I hope I would feel that way about her.'

My heart sank. He would cast me out of the house and then what would I do?

He took back the book and tapped some more before he showed me, 'Here and now, women do not need dowries to marry. Women work at all kinds of occupations and live independently. Few marriages are by arrangement. When women marry, it is usually to the person of their free choice.'

I looked at him very closely. Some people do get to marry of their free choice. The daughters of farmers, craftsmen and merchants get to meet young men of their own class in the ordinary course of life, and many times I had looked at some young wife behind a shop counter and wished to change places with her, for although merchants are small minded people who only care about making money, there a woman might be valued for her efforts, not condemned to sit in useless luxury. Had I been the daughter of a kimono maker, my skill with a needle would have served me better, and I might have married into another family of kimono makers on the same street. I might have known my husband before we met to drink the wedding sake, perhaps even have played with him when we were children.

Instead I was sent into the Inner Household of a child Shogun, and everyone told me I was lucky to get to leave and marry at nineteen rather than serving until I was twenty-nine like everybody else. Did I want to end up like Lady Aoi who kept disappearing into actors' dressing rooms every time we went to the theater and coming back with her hair mussed? She could never pay her gambling debts because she spent her allowance buying presents for her lovers.

Jun-san had taken the book back while I thought and now showed me, 'People who are thinking of getting married take their time to get to know each other first. They do things together that they both enjoy, like go to concerts and (a word I didn't understand). They talk about what is important to them, have meals and many other things to learn if they are compatible before they make a lifetime commitment. This is called dating. I would like us to try that.'

I used the dictionary to ask him if people did this in Japan, because there is no telling what Europeans may think is normal, but if it is going on at home then it must be socially acceptable.

"Yes." He tapped the squares for a while and then showed me a long piece of writing about 'relationships' and 'gender roles'. I did not understand all of it and what I did understand I am not sure whether to believe. I will have to think about it and read it again.

I got the dictionary and asked him what 'dating' would entail. Because to be honest I do not want to go back out into the city again soon if it can be helped. It is a filthy, violent dangerous place—at least the parts of it I have seen close up, and it troubles me deeply. I think that this house and its garden are about all I can handle at the moment.

He pointed to the bags he had brought in with him. I went over, and discovered they were full of food, some of which were foods from home, pickled plums and crisp toasted seaweed sheets, wasabi, soy sauce, noodles, flaked bonito, kombu, and more. It was mostly in thin crackly clear wrappings like most things seem to be. In another one there was a thin flat box with a picture of a group of samurai on the front of it. He seemed to want that, so I brought it over to him, and he used the book to explain that it was that word I didn't understand, called the Seven Samurai, and it was like a play that could be watched over and over again. It was considered a very fine (incomprehensible) and the director Kurosawa was one of the best in the world. We would watch it and have dinner and then discuss what we thought of it.

What I think of him is a much more interesting question. He thought to buy clothing for me, without being asked, and he bought food I might like, and whatever this _movie_ thing is,--it is very good of him. If he is consistently this kind and considerate...

I don't know.

I don't know.


	38. Emetophobia: The Fear of Vomiting

A box of sweets to share

a spot in the shade,

and my sisters about me;

how I miss those hours.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

Had I seen Suzume around the campus as she was then, without thumbprints on her forehead and in the sunny cardigan and skirt the saleswoman had chosen, I would have guessed she was a tourist from Japan visiting an older sibling. Not because she was Asian and therefore foreign, but because she was foreign in a way not easily defined, which had something to do with her slenderness, something about her apparent innocence, and quite a lot to do with how unconsciously comfortable she was in how she knelt in front of my old television. Any American over the age of nine would be suffering numbness and cramping within fifteen minutes in that position.

She wasn't so much watching The Seven Samurai as _living_ it, her face echoing the emotions she saw on the faces on screen. Having read about how people screamed and fainted when the first movies ever were shown, I was a trifle concerned about how she would react, but she was fine with it—perhaps the subtitles running across the bottom for my benefit were keeping her grounded.

I had seen it before, and so as the first samurai shaved his head and donned a monk's robes to rescue a child being held hostage by a thief, I could turn my thoughts inward and think.

While the blow she delivered to my privates had been painful, I had been hit in the groin harder than that—an incident playing dodge ball in fifth grade came to mind, not to mention the time a patient turned out to be insufficiently sedated about a year and a half ago—but never when I was in such an...oversensitive state. That made the kneeing hurt worse than it would have otherwise, but the ache was subsiding. To her credit, Suzume did not hold a grudge. She had fetched the ice promptly and was quite apologetic , albeit prone to break out into scolding so mild it was hardly worth calling a scold. I had been scolded by experts in my time, women who could excoriate with the power of a belt sander, and Suzume was not in their class.

Nothing so pointed out the difference between our cultures so much as the revelation that kissing was unheard of in polite Japanese society of her day. She had explained that the practice had been introduced by foreign traders and sailors when they visited the dockside brothels to slake their need for kisses, among other forms of affection, and consequently was thought of as something of a perversion. She had also explained that if we were married, that would be one thing, but as we weren't, she wasn't going to put out, in effect.

"If one has to marry someone, she wouldn't be such a bad choice," Dr. Crane thought out loud. "If she reacts that negatively to a mere kiss, then it's not likely that she would be very...demanding." He had manifested for the first time around the start of The Seven Samurai, for reasons known only to him, and was now sitting apart from the rest of us, on the built-in bench. Like the Scarecrow, he had his own 'look', which was that he looked like I would if I were wearing a white lab coat with a surgical mask and gloves.

"There's the problem," the Scarecrow stated. "I _want_ her to be demanding. You, on the other hand, would rather just leave that ice bag in place until our balls develop frostbite, and Jonny here wants to get to _know_ her as a_ person_—and not in the biblical sense."

That was where he was mistaken. I wanted to get to know her as a person first before doing anything irrevocable.

"You wish," sneered the burlap-masked third of my personality. "Listen, we are twenty-six, and the entire extent of our experience consists of ten incomplete minutes with our sophomore year lab partner, which ended when she started crying and saying she couldn't do this after all. This is a goddamned ridiculous and humiliating state of _non_-affairs—why are neither of you listening to me?"

Dr. Crane wasn't listening because to him, we didn't exist, and I was watching both The Seven Samurai and Suzume.

Strange...kissing seemed so natural to persons born and raised in twenty-first century America. A kiss was the most basic gesture of affection there was, a common denominator in close relationships, bestowed freely between parents and children, husbands and wives, lovers, even between friends, provided at least one of them was female. Of course it all depended. My great-grandmother had never, to my knowledge, kissed anyone since her wedding day. My grandmother did a great deal of social kissing or 'air' kissing, the kind which never made contact for fear of spoiling each others' makeup, but that did not extend to unwanted grandsons.

My mother did kiss me, when I was a child, but since we spent very little time together when I was growing up...

Four and a half days together, to be precise. She took off a few weeks after I was born, running away once again, and more successfully that time. I don't precisely blame her, since I knew better than anyone what Great-Grandmother was like. No doubt she abused Mother as she would later abuse me.

When I was seven, my mother came back for me. I remember it very well—who wouldn't remember the first time in living memory that one met one's mother? I was in class, trying hard to sit still and not call out the answers even though I knew them all, when over the loudspeaker came, 'Jonny Crane, your mother is waiting for you in the principal's office.' I thought it had to be a mistake, because if anyone was waiting for me in the office, it would be Great-Grandmother, but when I went in, there was a beautiful, smiling lady with golden hair and eyes so blue looking at her was like looking at a summer sky. Even though I'd never seen a picture of her, (Grandmother had destroyed them all), I knew who she was straight off. I would have known even if no one had said my mother was waiting for me, because she looked so much like me. I ran to her and threw my arms around her waist, breathing in her scent, drinking in the sensation of being so close to her, and she dropped to her knees, hugging me back. "Mommy," I mumbled into her hair.

My mother whispered back, "Jonathan, oh, Jonny." Then she kissed me, the first kiss I could ever remember receiving. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but it'll be okay now." She must have said something to the principal, but I don't recall exactly what. The next thing I knew, she was leading me outside into a day more glorious than any before, to a car where a man waited for us.

"Is this my daddy?" I asked, childishly direct, and my mother laughed.

"He's going to be your daddy from now on," she explained, "because he and I are getting married, and we're all going to live together and be a family like we always should have been. And we'll be happy. You want that, don't you?" I don't remember his face now, but I remember how he smelled; slightly skunky and a little like apple pies, for some reason. My mother smelled of a perfume with vanilla and lilac in it, such a lovely fragrance.

I thought for a moment of Great-Grandmother, and then endless chores that awaited me when I got home, and ate every waking weekend hour. I thought of school, and the children who teased me for my old-fashioned, moth eaten clothing, the bullies and the scorn, and I replied, "More than anything in the whole world."

She laughed again, a rippling, genuine, wonderful laugh, and said, "You sound like a little old man—my little old son. That's okay, we'll soon have you sounding more like a kid should. Hop in the car now, we've got several days driving ahead of us. We're going to Texas!" She whooped at the sky, startling some birds out of the trees.

It was the happiest moment of my childhood. Unfortunately it did not last. Little did anyone know, since I so rarely rode in a car for any distance, but I got motion sick. That was soon fixed, as we stopped to get me cleaned up (not to mention the car) at a gas station which supplied not only paper towels but also Dramamine, an over the counter anti-nausea remedy. The down side was that it made me very sleepy. For three days, we drove, stopping for dinner (and more Dramamine) and staying in motels where I slept on a cot while my mother and her fiancé shared the bed. I do not believe that what my great-grandmother said was true: that they were not engaged, that she was a whore and he her pimp, that she entertained dozens of men a night while I lay in a drugged sleep, nor that their only reason for collecting me was to sell me to a pedophile.

In the morning, we would eat at a cheap diner somewhere nearby. I thought the food was wonderful—I finally had enough to eat!—and then we would get sandwiches to go for lunch. On the third day, I bit into a sandwich that had more than chicken salad between two slices of white toast. It had a special surprise lurking in the mayonnaise—salmonella poisoning. The initial symptoms were enough like carsickness that my mother and her fiancé shrugged it off and gave me another plastic bag, but by nightfall it was obvious something worse was wrong with me, namely bloody diarrhea as well as nausea, and with fever, chills, and headache thrown into the bargain. I recall sitting on a toilet with a wastebasket in front of me, waiting for the next bout of excrement to tear its way through me, more abjectly miserable than ever before in my life, while outside in the motel room my mother wept and my prospective 'daddy' shouted at her.

A gap of some eighteen hours in my memory follows that. I woke up in a hospital bed, an IV in my arm and my great-grandmother sitting by the bed, her mouth a hairline fracture in her granite face. My mother had not reclaimed me, it seemed. She had abducted me from the care of my legal guardian, and I was never to be free again until Time and dementia opened the prison gate and I went to college.

The next time I saw my mother was at my high school graduation, and I almost didn't recognize her. She was alone—no mention of her fiancé, and she had let that golden hair go back to its normal mousy brown. She was thinner, and looked much older, and the joy was gone out of her too. When she tried to kiss me, I turned my head. We stood there, uncomfortable as only family can be with one another, making small talk until she could escape from me. I have not seen her or spoken to her since. I don't know where she is, and in all honesty, I don't care. I bear her no ill will, but I find it difficult to feel anything for her at all.

While I mused, The Seven Samurai had reached the intermission. I paused the DVD player and asked, through my computer, what Suzume thought of it so far. She replied, via the dictionary, that it was an excellent story, but nothing like a play at all. Plays were very stylized and unnatural, whereas this _movie_ was like being there while it was going on. Were there very many movies like this?

I replied that there were, not all by Kurosawa and not all as good, and not only from Japan but from other countries all over the world, including America. Would she like to see others?

She definitely would. I said we would watch another one the next night, in English with Japanese subtitles. The movie was called Romeo and Juliet, and it was about a young man and a young woman from two noble families in a city called Verona. I thought she would like it. She said (again, through the dictionary) she was very curious to see more movies, and she would very much like to see one from Europe. Then she sprang up to clear away the dinner dishes—she had produced a clear soup, vegetables and rice balls stuffed with salmon for us—and I considered how different Suzume was from any other woman I had ever known. She was especially different than any woman in my family. She was thoughtful, appreciative—and speaking of appreciating, I had bought some chocolate.

When Suzume returned with tea for us, I unwrapped the candy and invited her to try it. Apprehensive at first, she broke off a square and nibbled on it. Having never before seen anyone try chocolate for the first time, her reaction was, to say the least, ecstatic. She looked as though she were having a vision of God. She swallowed very carefully and asked if she could have more, (in Japanese, but her meaning was very clear.)

I said that half was hers, and to help herself. She did. Starting the movie up again was out of the question; this chocolate sensory experience was too overwhelming for her to pay attention to anything like a movie. When she had finished every last morsel, she looked around, at the television, at the packages of food still on the counter ( I had bought one of everything in the Japanese section in the grocery store), at the clothing she was wearing, and at the empty candy wrapper.

Then she threw herself on her face at my feet, an unexpected move, and begged my forgiveness. (going by tone and gesture) When she raised her head, there were tears in her eyes. Reaching for the dictionary, she praised me for my kindness, thoughtfulness and generosity, adding that I was far, far better to her than she deserved.

"Wow, " said the Scarecrow. "Who knew chocolate was so powerful?"

"If that's the sort of attitude she's going to take, it only seems right to make the arrangement permanent, " offered Dr. Crane.

For some reason, the fact that they were agreeing like this disturbed me. However, there was still the rest of the movie to watch, and I started it going again.


	39. Cardiophobia: The Fear of the Heart

How I envy his under robe—

it gets to hold him

all day and all night.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

After The Seven Samurai was over, we discussed it. I say discussed, but of course it was all done via the computer and the dictionary. Suzume said she thought it was a very powerful story which did not adhere to the conventions of theater and would never be passed by the censors of her day; namely, it violated the social order by having a group of peasants take control of a situation when the local daimyo could not or would not. As far as movies went, she did not know enough about them to be critically discerning, but she found the main characters sympathetic and the settings believable.

In my turn, I said that the character Kikuchiyo, played by Toshiro Mifune, was the most interesting because he began by pretending he was a samurai by birth, acting insanely and recklessly, yet by the end he had accepted who he was and redeemed himself. If the story had a hero, he was the hero because he was the person who had changed the most.

She said the young samurai who fell in love with the peasant girl was the sort of person who was always the hero in romances, but that Kikuchiyo was much more interesting—although she thought he would be a difficult person to know in real life.

Then she apologized in advance for being so troublesome and asked me if she could use the book like I did, which confused me until I realized she meant my laptop. Theoretically the answer was yes, but I had no idea how to adjust the settings for her to be able to write in any of the written forms of Japanese and at any rate, the keyboard was all wrong, with no way of telling which key would do what. She could point and click, but that was about all. I would much rather she only used it with my supervision until I felt confident that she wouldn't break it—but I had an inspiration. Looking up 'pocket translators Japanese-English', I discovered that Waynetech made a highly rated palm-sized translator with a full keyboard marked for both languages, which was the equivalent of ten dictionaries and came with ten thousand common phrases in eight different categories for fast and easy look up. It was practically a language course in and of itself, and it was in stock at an office supply store right across the street from the campus. Moreover, it wasn't too expensive. I told her I would get her a special translation device tomorrow.

I took the tea cups into the kitchen and started washing dishes, which scandalized her. She very politely wrested the plate and dishrag from my hand and elbowed me out of the way, so I took the towel instead and started drying. She dropped the dishrag and seized the towel and wet dish, glaring at me for violating the social order even worse than The Seven Samurai had done, and I whipped the dishrag out from behind her and started washing the next plate. I smiled at her impotent fury, and reclaimed the towel when she yanked at the dishrag. Finally I had both towel and dishrag, and I dangled them up above my head, well out of her reach. She made two or three little jumps, swiping at them, with little mewing cries of frustration. Then Suzume stepped back, put her hands on her hips, and made the kneeing gesture (several feet away from my groin), squaring up her shoulders.

I dropped both cloths and held my hands out to ward her off, still smiling. She said something which I interpreted as ' Serve you right if I did!', and she laughed.

Her laugh was unlike any I had ever heard before. Not melodic or infectious or enchanting or any other over-blown compliment, it was a high pitched 'Kyee-hee-hee!" The best way I can describe it is to say it was not quite sane, but it suited her, and it was thoroughly humanizing. She was real. We were playing, something neither of us had much opportunity to do in our formative years. Who were we? A young man who was of at least three minds about everything, the ghost of a girl who had been married five years yet never been kissed, fooling around in a kitchen—the situation could not have been more unlikely, more impossible. Or more ordinary—just two people doing the dishes together after dinner and ( although they are not truly aware of it yet) falling in love. In hindsight I can see where it began, not in the throes of passion, or at a moment of high drama when we were afraid for our lives, but then as we turned a chore into fun. Some might think it dull. How dull is heaven when you've lived through hell?

Picking up the dishrag, she let me retrieve the towel, and she did the washing while I dried from then on. When the dishes were done, I showed her a few things around the kitchen and the house, attempting to communicate tactfully that I preferred black tea in the morning and oatmeal rather than rice. After I demonstrated the whitening toothpaste, (which did lighten her blackened teeth by several shades) she disappeared.

Where did she go when she did that? For that matter, I still didn't know where or if she slept, or where she went during the day.

For that matter, where had the Scarecrow and Dr. Crane gone? The last time I had heard or seen either of them was at the intermission. I didn't know precisely when they had disappeared...

* * *

A/N: Short, I know, but it finishes up the evening. More next time, I promise!


	40. Lactophobia: The Fear of Milk

Last night I dreamt I nursed my child;

This morning I woke weeping.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

By now my mornings were taking on the feeling of a routine: wake up with the impression I had not been alone, use the bathroom, and go downstairs to find breakfast waiting for me with no sign of Suzume. Another addition to my life was an interesting message waiting for me when I got to work, this time an e-mail from Mitsuoko Harris. She wanted to know if I had given the museum exhibit idea any thought. I replied that I had not, but that I had learned something since I last saw her, explaining what Alasdair Kemp had done.

'While I have serious misgivings about getting involved with him to any degree whatsoever, no exhibition about Suzume Murasaki could be considered comprehensive without that jacket and the letter embroidered in it,' I wrote, 'and who knows what other pieces of the puzzle he holds?' I attached the letter from Suzume to Junaemon to the e-mail, and sent it.

I had a reply back within twenty minutes. 'I would rather not leave a trail of electronic ink which mentions names and details. Are you free for a rather late lunch? I can meet you at Pane y Tomate at two-thirty.'

She knew something detrimental about Kemp; no one would refuse to send an e-mail in those terms otherwise. Pane y Tomate was a popular Italian restaurant not far from the campus, and about four blocks from the office supply store where I planned to buy the translator anyway. I replied that would be fine.

Scarecrow and Dr. Crane still had not put in an appearance by the time I got to the eatery. Why not? What was different about me/us today?

Pane y Tomate, which meant Bread and Tomatoes, was a small local chain, moderately priced and family-friendly without being child-oriented. While it had no pretensions to elegance, neither was it a dump. The light fixtures had been made from old olive oil bottles with the bottoms cut off, and clean white butcher's paper took the place of the tableclothes. The potted plants were real, not silk or plastic, and appetizing aromas wafted to my nose as I opened the door, not the smell of stale grease. Ms. Harris was waiting on a bench by the door. She was much as I remembered her--a pleasant and intelligent-looking Asian woman of middle age. She greeted me, and the hostess showed us to a table. After we sat down, ordered, and were given ice water and bread to hold us until more substantial food arrived, Ms. Harris sighed. "Now...concerning Alasdair Kemp. He has a certain reputation in the Asian art world, and it's a dubious one. At best, he's a vandal, at worst—but I ought to work up to that. As I've never yet personally encountered him, I checked with my counterpart in the Hong Kong Rotheby's, Lee Kao. I've known Mr. Kao for more than ten years, and I can vouch for his reliability as a source. Seven years ago, Kemp paid a visit to our office there. He's purchased items at our auctions several times over the last twenty years, but never sold through us. On this occasion, Mr. Kao showed him, as a courtesy, an ivory netsuke of a sparrow. A netsuke is part of a belt-pouch ensemble, an essential part of a gentleman's wardrobe. The word for 'sparrow' in Japanese is 'Suzume'—and this particular netsuke had come from the Murasaki family collection."

"Did it belong to her?" I asked, breaking off a hunk of rosemary-scented bread and dipping it in a dish of olive oil.

"No. If the dates are correct, it belonged to her father. Kemp offered to buy the piece, but it had already been sold to a museum. Kemp offered to pay half again what the museum had paid for it, but of course that was out of the question. Rotheby's doesn't do business like that. Mr. Kao told him so, and Kemp seemed to take it in good heart—but when he stood up to go, the buttons on his sleeve got caught on the display pad, and the netsuke was knocked to the floor. When Kemp moved his chair to look for it, somehow he stepped on it and ground it into splinters. I've seen pictures; it was an exquisite piece." Ms. Harris took a swallow of water. "You could see every feather."

"It might have been an accident," I offered.

"It might have," Ms. Harris agreed, "except that Mr. Kao saw Kemp's face reflected in a brass urn at the moment when he bent over to see what damage he'd done, and he says Kemp was smiling."

"He destroyed it so no one else could have it...What did Kemp do then?" I inquired.

"Took out his checkbook and paid for the piece. He could hardly do anything else under the circumstances. However, there's more to Kemp than that. As a professor of Japanese history, he's written several books on the subject, and frequently contributes to museum publications. Naturally he often visits those museums. When he last visited The Tale of Genji Museum in Kyoto, a small jade water container from the original Lady Murasaki's writing set went missing. The Mingeikan Museum of Folk Crafts in Tokyo lost a tea scoop which had belonged to the renowned master of the tea ceremony, Sen no Rikyu. The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston lost an obi which belonged to Jigoku Dayu, The Courtesan from Hell."

"'The Courtesan from Hell?'," I couldn't help asking.

"That was what she called herself. Not much is known about her, other than that she wrote poetry and always wore clothing with an infernal motif—hellfire, demons, skeletons, and so on. A prototype for today's Japanese Goth girls."

"I see," I said, flashing for one moment on what Suzume might look like dressed as a Goth. Again, _adorable_ sprang to mind.

"I could keep going—Interpol has a file on Kemp going back over thirty years. He's suspected of seventeen different thefts of Asian art objects, mainly from museums. I happen to have a contact in Interpol, to whom I spoke before I came here, which is how I found all this out. All the items in question could be concealed about his person or in his briefcase, all were unique not so much for what they were as for who had owned them, and most of them belonged to women."

"Has he never been searched, arrested, or prosecuted?" I asked. The waiter brought over our meals and offered us fresh Parmesan to top our meals.

"Most of the thefts went unnoticed for several days, and one was overlooked for more than two months. It's not as if he went in and took the Hope Diamond out of its case—and given how long he's been active, many of the thefts pre-date motion detectors and security cameras. He's been searched twice, but they found nothing either time—and he has never been formally arrested or prosecuted. Also, whatever he's doing with them, he's not taking them to sell. None of these have turned up on the market."

"He's taking them to keep," I stated. "He's not a kleptomaniac, he's a collector. These objects have a romantic association for him—he's in love with the past, and specifically with Suzume Murasaki. Most likely he has a room set up somewhere as a sort of shrine with all these items and more in it."

"I'm inclined to agree," Ms. Harris said. "As you can imagine, Interpol would like nothing better than to catch him and retrieve the stolen items. Some of them were important cultural treasures. However, his penchant for pocketing valuables isn't the worst of it. He might also be a murderer."

"A murderer!" I exclaimed, sitting up straighter.

"Yes. This is strictly confidential, of course."

"Of course. Who is he thought to have killed?"

"A young woman by the name of Naomi Miyabe." She pronounced the name 'Now-me', not 'Nay-oh-me'. "If she were alivetoday, she would be about my age. Twenty-five years ago, she was studying English Literature at Oxbridge, where he taught. She wasn't in any of his classes, but given that she was Japanese and he teaches Japanese History, it was natural that he should speak to her at certain college events, like a tea for new students. Given that we, Naomi Miyabe and I, that is, were of the same generation and similar backgrounds, I can speak for her regarding how she was brought up. It's relaxed somewhat now, but girls of our generation were brought up to be completely self-effacing--dutiful, obedient, polite and respectful.

"We were expected to bow to authority--especially male authority-and not to trouble others with our problems. It was also expected that we would leave the workforce--if we entered it at all-- optimally by age twenty-five and certainly by age thirty, that we would marry suitably and not only take care of our children and our home, but our husband's parents when they got old. We were not to expect to marry for love alone, or to rely on our husbands for more than a paycheck. He would be gone eighty hours a week and sometimes more, between work and socializing with co-workers, which was mandatory if he wanted to rise in the company. He had to be a team player. All the house work, all the child care, all the elder care, all the financial management of the household, would fall on us. We would even dictate if our husband could keep a mistress as he wanted to, or if he would just have enough for a visit to a sex worker now and then-yet if we divorced, we got nothing, not even custody of our children. We were brought up to do everything while asking for nothing, uncomplainingly.

"That Naomi was allowed to study abroad was very unusual. She was exceptionally intelligent, reliable, not flighty, or her parents would never have allowed it. They trusted her. When Kemp began to bother her, she did not complain to them. She went to one of the student proctors for advice. These days, we would call Professor Kemp a stalker--but twenty-five years ago, if a young woman complained about unwanted attention, she wasn't taken very seriously. He wasn't threatening her, or making sexual advances--she would have known how to cope with that. He was always the perfect older gentleman, whenever they met-which was far oftener than they should have. He would run into her in places he would not otherwise have been, if he wasn't following her or keeping track of her movements. He sometimes sent her little gifts--a book, a little bunch of flowers. She did not like how he spoke to her, but he never said anything obscene or suggestive. She did not give any details, and she didn't want to make any trouble for him. She just wanted him to leave her alone.

"It would have taken a lot to make her break her silence and ask for help but all the proctor said that until and unless Kemp did something illegal, there was nothing they could do. Naomi apologized for bothering her, and left.

"That conversation took place on a Friday. On Monday morning, Naomi Miyabewas found lying on her bed with a plastic bag over her head. She had apparently taken an overdose of sleeping pills, laid down, and put on the bag so she would be sure to suffocate and not live on with brain damage. Her death was ruled a suicide. I disagree, based on the contents of her stomach.

"Her last meal included a Welsh rabbit and ice cream for dessert. Do you know what a Welsh rabbit is, Dr. Crane?"

"Isn't it a melted cheese sauce over toast, with mustard and beer and such in it? I know there's no actual rabbit meat in it." I had never eaten it, but I had heard of it.

"That's right. Did you happen to notice that I didn't get a dish with a lot of cheese in it? The only cheese in this is that little grating of Parmesan the waiter ground over it. I, like Naomi Miyabe and many other people of Japanese birth and descent, am _horribly_ lactose intolerant. It's a genetic predisposition combined with a cultural peculiarity. Not until recently have dairy foods been a significant part of the Japanese diet--until the latter part of the twentieth century in fact. Thousands of years of not consuming milk or milk products after being weaned from breast milk contribute to that intolerance. If I were to drink more than a few ounces of milk, I would suffer terrible cramping, bloating, and general misery."

"But if it was to be her last meal, perhaps she decided to indulge herself," I suggested, stowing away the information about lactose intolerance for future reference. Suzume had enough issues with food, given her fear of poisoning, without my bringing home a pizza and a pint of ice cream some night and discovering how dairy products affected her the hard way.

"No," Ms. Harris was definite. "Although that was the conclusion the coroner's office came to. For my generation and older, dairy products are more of an acquired taste. Naomi Miyabe never had the chance to aquire that taste. The first time she ever ate enough dairy products to make her sick was at the welcoming tea. A well-meaning individual hospitably filled her plate with all sorts of the delicacies served at an English tea--cream cheese sandwiches, cheddar and tomato sandwiches, a Stilton-apple tart, a wedge of Wensleydale--and then there were the desserts. Trifle with pudding and whipped cream, cheese cake... Being a guest as well as a well-brought up, polite young woman, she choked it all down rather than waste the food or embarrass anyone. That night she had intestinal pains so bad they nearly took her to the emergency room."

"What do you think happened?"

"What do I think...I think that it would be easy to hide the taste of sleeping pills in a Welsh rabbit. Cheddar cheese, mustard and beer would cover a lot of sins."

_Who does that remind you of, but yourself?,_ whispered the Scarecrow. It was disturbing to realize I had something in common with Kemp.

Ms. Harris continued. "I imagine Naomi approached Kemp to ask him to leave her alone, and that he somehow persuaded her to eat dinner with him. Maybe he said he just wnted to have the pleasure of her company over a meal one time, and, being polite, self-effacing, and compliant with male authority, she agreed. Perhaps he threatened her into eating the rabbit, or maybe she didn't want to embarrass him by not eating, even if she would be in pain later because of it. At any rate, she ate. When the pills began to work, he took her home, and once he got her inside, he put her on the bed and, just as he would do with the sparrow netsuke eighteen years later, he destroyed what he could not have."

"Was she sexually assaulted?" I asked.

"No, In fact, she died a complete innocent. It was in the coroner's report. Kemp never married, never had affairs with anyone, female or male. He was widely thought of, around Oxbridge, to be more or less asexual."

_And doesn't that ring a bell_? Scarecrow taunted again. Was I that much like Kemp? Would I dwindle into a mad eccentric who thought nothing of doing what he pleased, no matter how criminal it was?

"Do you hope to pin her murder on him?" I asked.

"I don't think that's realistic, at this point," replied Ms. Harris. "I would be glad to see him go to prison for theft and burglary, however. Would you be willing to help toward that goal?"

* * *

A longer chapter, as promised! Hope you enjoy--the last chapter was a bit thin.


	41. Decidophobia: Fear of Making Decisions

My husband sleeps beside me, groaning like a mill.

A long pin, inserted where the skull

Meets the spine—would cure him of those snores

Forever.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

"Would that be in addition to or instead of turning the story of Lady Suzume into a museum exhibit?" I asked, taken aback by the boldness of her approach.

"In addition to it, of course," Ms. Harris said, as cool as an ice cube in her water glass. "In fact, if you can help the museums recover their lost items, I'm sure they would show their gratitude by helping put it together."

"Ms. Harris, I appreciate that the suggestions you 're making would potentially do a great deal for my career, not to mention my bank account. However—," I paused, wondering just how to word this.

"Oh, I'm very good at thinking of challenges for young people. It's the mother in me," she assured me, smiling.

"Why me?" I asked. "Of course I can see why I would be needed to stage the museum exhibition, but why would I specifically be needed to bring Kemp down?"

"Because he's already revealed to you the existence of the jacket and the letter," she explained. "You mentioned that he found it in the rafters of a monastery he helped to renovate—that was back when he was still a grad student. I looked up his resume on the Oxbridge site, found the name of the monastery, and called them. The renovation was well documented and all student workers were supposed to hand in anything they found. There is no record of any jacket having been turned in, although Kemp did make several other finds. In nearly forty years, you are the only known person he has shared that with."

"I think I ought to point out that he said it in the presence of Dr. Eagleton," I said, "so I am one of two with whom he shared it."

"Eagleton doesn't count—he was simply there in the room. You are the one Kemp told. He's a person with no close ties, no confidants—but he approached you. He believes you share his interests."

_I like that idea_, whispered the Scarecrow, _Gain his trust and stab him in the back. That's my kind of fun._

I ignored him. "Kemp believes I have something he wants—which I do. I have the chest, although he doesn't know I have it open as yet. Incidentally, I led him to believe I've owned the scroll you translated for some time. I gave him a copy of the translation you read aloud."

"Would you like me to back you up should it be necessary?" she guessed correctly at what I was about to ask.

"If you would, yes. Oh—and there is something else I wanted to talk to you about, a question I have concerning Japanese citizenship." It had occurred to me that here was a person who would know what proofs were needed to obtain legal ID for Suzume. "Speaking hypothetically, suppose I knew someone born and raised in Japan who , through no fault of their own, now has no legal identity anywhere in the world—never mind why. This person is residing in the United States without any papers at all. Unfortunately , she—the gender doesn't necessarily matter, but I shall refer to her as 'she' in the interest of brevity—cannot possibly pass for a native-born American. Her English will never be good enough. "

"She's in quite a fix, then. That's what you're saying," Ms. Harris nodded. "Unfortunately—no, I 'll have to explain the way the registration of births and deaths works in Japan. Here, in the USA, before the whole business of birth certificates began, people relied on private records, like family bibles, right? There would be extra pages to write down the births, marriages, deaths, and so on. Well, some Americans may still put those things down in their bibles but no one would consider that a legal document. Well, in Japan the traditional records have been incorporated into the legal system. Every family has a koseki, a family register, some of which go back well over a thousand years. They're kept by the head of the household. Births, adoptions, marriages, divorces, deaths—they all get written down. In fact, marriages, adoptions and acknowledgements of paternity aren't even legally recognized until they're recorded in the family register—and then they're reported officially to the authorities. Births and deaths obviously happen whether they're recorded or not, but they are legally required to be reported to the authorities when they happen.

"Wherever and whenever you would need to produce a birth certificate here in the US, you'd need to have or refer to your family registry in Japan. If someone were using another person's, alive or dead, they'd soon be found out. The only way it would work would be to murder an orphan with no living family in their register, then dispose of the body so it was never found, and even then—what am I saying? Everything is computerized these days, people are photographed, fingerprinted, there's DNA—Japan is too sophisticated to pull a fast one like that. Now, on the other hand, if your hypothetical 'she' were Chinese or Korean—or could pass for one—then there would be a way to pull it off."

"Pass for one?" I asked.

"Yes. If she spoke either Mandarin or Korean like a native, and if she were on the smallish side—this wouldn't work if she were five-seven or taller—then she could claim to be seeking asylum from a forced marriage. Both China and South Korea are facing a serious social crisis thanks to strict population control policies and their rabidly patriarchal traditions."

"You'll have to explain a little further. I'm afraid I'm ignorant."

"Like so many...Gotham City is just the sort of area that this problem would show at our end, and especially in an institute of higher learning. Think about your Asian students—how many of them are adoptees? If you don't know them well enough personally, think of how many of them have first and last names that give no clue as to their ethnicity."

I considered the question, counting in my head. "Ten—no, eleven."

"How many of those are female?" She leveled a stare at me.

"Nine."

"There you have it. When families are allowed to have only one child, they want a male child. The eldest son not only carries on the family name, he traditionally takes care of his parents in their old age. If they can have a second child, they want another son, in case something happens to the first. Daughters are seen as a waste of valuable resources, because a girl costs as much to feed and clothe, but they don't get any return on that investment. A girl becomes part of her husband's family. Who wants to raise another man's wife. Female fetuses are aborted, girl babies abandoned—or else they die 'mysteriously'."

"You mean infanticide."

"Of course. If the abandoned babies are found in time, they wind up in orphanages. The lucky ones are adopted. For two generations now, China and South Korea have been sending their girls here to America, so when their treasured sons grow up to become men, there are not enough prospective brides to go around. It's going to get worse before it gets better—right now there are kindergarten classes in China with twice as many boys as there are girls."

"One would think that either basic arithmetic or else plain common sense would tell them this cannot possibly work on a long term basis." I shook my head. "It's sheer madness."

"Tradition, unfortunately, is more powerful than either common sense or the ability to add two and two. So, since the problem is well entrenched, there are men, those who can't find a wife on their own, who will pay to get one—so they can beget a son to carry on their names and take care of them when they get old. Not to mention that then they'll have someone to do the housework and take care of the elders. Right now, there are young women who are being followed, being watched, by people who will abduct them, drug them, transport them several thousand miles and sell them into slavery, because marriages like that aren't legal. They will be raped repeatedly, overworked and underfed, beaten and abused. They may never set foot outside the house or off the farm again, to keep them from escaping. If they can't produce a son, they may be murdered. Their daughters will more than likely be abandoned or die 'mysteriously', perpetuating the cycle. Their birth families will never know what happened to them."

"That's monstrous," was all I could say.

"Yes. It is. So—if your hypothetical 'she' can fit the criteria, explaining her away as a runaway 'wife' would be complicated but possible. It would explain away her lack of papers . If she spoke Mandarin, China being a communist country with a policy of disinformation and denial, not to mention enormous, who would be surprised if no trace of her was ever found? If she spoke Korean, well, let's say she was born in North Korea, also a communist country with a policy of disinformation and denial, and escaped to South Korea with the help of people who turned out to be a bride-kidnapping ring. Is your hypothetical person small enough? If she's too tall, then it would be obvious her family had enough money to keep her well-fed and safe."

"Since she is hypothetical, she can be any height one imagines. Let's say she's four foot ten."

"Ideal. And since she's hypothetical, which language would she speak?"

"I...don't know. You say it would be complicated. Do you think that with the help of an organization like, say, Interpol, the complications might be smoothed over?" I asked, knowing I was committing myself. (To the goal of exposing Kemp, that is. Whatever happened with Suzume, she would certainly need legal papers).

"Definitely," Ms. Harris said. "Shall I call my connection?"

Scarecrow laughed. _Finally_, he said, _you're going to give us a chance to live up to our potential ._


	42. Hobophobia: The Fear of Beggars

The snow falls as soft as kittens' footsteps—

and I am weeping again.

When shall this grief fade?

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

I was not thinking of anything important as I swept the kitchen floor, just of things like how easy it was to put on and take off the clothing Jun-san had given me, and how different it was from the garments of my time and place. Of course they were also rather more revealing—I was not accustomed to having my calves and arms show, nor so much of my neck, and these clothes relied on me to give them a shape rather than the other way around, with padding and binding and so forth. But the underwear was very uncomfortable and unpractical as well. Perhaps I could make myself something better—and my hair was very difficult to take care of without a maid to help me. I could cut it—not so short that I would look like a peasant, just to my waist. Not that I knew how a peasant would wear her hair, but among the women officials and the prostitutes there were many who had even shorter hair than anyone not a nun would ever wear it...

With my thoughts going this way and that—my father always said I had a brain like a swallow's, darting here and there, going very fast but impossible to follow—I did not notice the man lurking around the kitchen door until I opened it and swept the dirt out over his feet. "Oh! Excuse me, I am very sorry," I said automatically. "It was my fault."

He was European, so there was no reason to suppose that he spoke my language, but I was quite surprised when he said, "No, not at all. The fault was mine. You did not know that I was there."

"You speak Japanese?!" I said, astonished.

"Yes. I am Kemp Alasdair-sensei. And you are?"

I paused before I answered, because I had just seen a young woman, a young Japanese woman, standing behind him—and she was a ghost. Not a half-alive ghost like me, but a proper ghost who hovered in the air, with no feet, only a blur of vapor. Wearing colors suited to late autumn or early winter, her hair was cut short, falling only to her shoulder, and she had a bag of that thin clear material over her head. Her face was terrible, discolored and distorted, and she shook her head, as though to let me know not to tell him.

So I made up another name, "Kuwano Shoko," keeping my eyes upon the ghost while I said it. She did not respond, which I took to mean that I done right.

"Kuwano Shoko-san—what a lovely name. I am so sorry to have disturbed you. I thought Crane-sensei lived here."

"He does," What to say? " I am his wife. Not by the laws in Gotham City, as the requisite paperwork and visas have not yet gone through, but all was entered into the family register properly, back at my home in Echigo."

"Ah—I did not know that he was married." The ghost looked at him as though she would like to strangle him with her bare hands.

"We have not been married long. Excuse me, Kemp-sensei, but are you by chance one of my husband's colleagues?"

"Merely in the broader sense. I teach at a different institution."

"I am sure he will be sorry to hear that he missed you. I don't know exactly when he will return, but I will tell him you called to see him." I turned to go back inside, but he stopped me with a sentence.

"On a warm day such as this, might an old man not beg some refreshment from your hands?"

The ghost, who had hung just behind his left shoulder all the while, now darted in between us, as though to bar his way. She did not want me to let him in, and her head lolled on her neck horribly.

It was one thing not to let him in, but there are certain things one does not do, and refusing an elder food or drink when they request it is one of them. My mother and father would be ashamed of me if I denied him what he asked for. The _gods_ would be ashamed of me if I denied him refreshment.

"Of course! Forgive me for not having offered you any already. If you would care to rest on that bench, I will bring you something immediately."

For a moment, he did not move, and neither did I. I thought he might push me aside and enter the house , and if he were younger or in better health, he might have. Once he turned his back toward me and left the porch, I went back in, locked the door behind me, and poured out some tea from the pitcher in the cold box, getting out some of the flat ginger cakes to go along with it. Taking the cup and plate, I closed the door behind me and went to him.

"Thank you very much," he said, accepting the plate and cup, "but aren't you joining me?" The ghost shook her head, making it loll loosely on her neck.

"Oh, no, please do not trouble yourself about me," I said. "I am fine, thank you."

He took a sip from the cup—a very small sip, I noted. He meant to prolong his staying here. "Delightful," he pronounced, "as are you. Crane-sensei is a very fortunate man to have found himself such a lovely and agreeable bride."

Since he spoke Japanese so well and was so knowledgeable of the customs of my home, he surely knew that he should not say such things to me. If he were much older and I much younger, it would be allowable, for old folks are entitled to be sentimental about babies and little ones, and can praise them as much as they choose.

I, however, was twenty years too old to be gushed over. "Oh, no, no, not at all! I am in no way special and it embarrasses me terribly to talk about myself. Please do not press me."

He took another sip, and his eyes wandered over my face like a vulture's eyes wander over a piece of carrion. Vulture's heads are bald, and his was going so. "Then shall we speak of something else—such as, has your husband ever mentioned the name of Murasaki O-Suzume-sama to you?" The ghost made a frantic gesture with her hands—was I not to tell at all?

"Oh, yes! " I said, trying to sound as if the name had little interest in it for me. "He has a scroll with the tale of her life and death, and some few other things of hers."

"Such as her dowry chest? Has he managed to get it open?" Now the ghost was agitated. She did not want me to say a word about that.

"No, it's as locked as it ever was," I replied. "Is the tea not to your liking, Kemp-sensei? I can make hot tea if you prefer..."

"No, thank you. What a touching concern you show for your guest! You remind me of my dear Naomi. She was my betrothed." The ghost formed her hands into claws and sought to scratch out his eyes, but to no avail.

"Was, sir? Did something happen to her?" The ghost was pointing to herself.

"She died. It was many years ago, and I am reconciled to it, so you need not pity me—but to return to the topic of Murasaki O-Suzume-sama. Is that scroll you spoke of here now?"

The ghost was telling me to say no, and I was perfectly willing to oblige her. I did not like this Kemp-sensei, and would not have liked him even if he did not have the ghost of a woman he very likely murdered following around. "I cannot say, " I told him. "Please, I hope you will excuse me. I have much to do this afternoon. When you are finished, you can leave the dishes on the back porch. " I took only two steps before the door opened and Jun-san came out. Good—now he could deal with his unsettling acquaintance.

A/N: This may be the weakest chapter I have ever written, but this week my cat Hobbes got sick. He has chronic kidney disease, which is an incurable terminal illness. With care, he may live a few more months or maybe a few years, but for a while there, it seemed like he might not even live through the week. I thought he was going to have to be put to sleep this morning, but he is getting better now, very slowly.

I wish I were a good enough writer to convey to you how wonderful a little guy he is, how loving and playful, and how much happiness he has brought me. He ran to greet me when I got home after work, and he woke me up in the mornings by sticking his paws in my ear or up my nose and purring. He climbed in my lap when I was trying to write, and I would put him down because I didn't want to be bothered. Right now he's too sick to do any of those things, and even if he gets better enough to do them again, I have to face the fact that he may soon be gone. If he lived to be fifty years old, that wouldn't be long enough.

So this has been a rough week. I cried a lot and couldn't write. If I missed sending you a reply to your review, I apologize.


	43. Albuminurophobia:Fear of Kidney Disease

This business of dying--

let it be over.

I'm quite bored with it.

---Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

I stopped of on the way back to school after lunching with Ms. Harris and purchased the translator along with a few other odds and ends. It was a rechargable, so before my next class, I opened up the package and plugged it in at my desk, leafing through the instructions, the registration card, and other paperwork that went with it. I was pleased to see everything was in both English and Japanese, which should enable Suzume to work out how to operate it on her own. Among the papers, however, was something odd.

It looked like part of an American passport, and to my eyes, it looked like the real thing. The few intact pages had stamps of entry to various countries in Europe and Asia, and photograph, although damaged, was that of a man more or less my age. He had a longish, thin, morose face, far more morose than the heir of untold wealth had any business being. I didn't need the name underneath the picture to tell me who he was. Didn't every form of media pull out the file photographs when they wanted to run an article or show about mysteries and unsolved cases?

Bruce Wayne, the heir to the Wayne family fortune, had gone missing some three or four years ago—or was it five?—after being kicked out of a series of Ivy League schools which had failed to educate or even civilize him. A poor student, more for lack of application than lack of ability, and prone to violent outbursts, Gotham City's richest son had decamped on a world tour after his last dip into the waters of higher education, and promptly dropped off the face of the earth somewhere around Hong Kong.

That was his last verified whereabouts. There had been sightings since then, his stolen credit cards had made their way through several illicit hands, but his body, living or dead, remained unfound.

Neither had his passport been found. Until now—maybe. Could this truly be the first clue to the fate of the peripatetic billionaire?

Surely not...but the translator had been made, the inserts printed, and the whole business packaged in China. Also, stranger things had happened, such as buying an antique Japanese dowry chest at an auction only to discover it came with a ghost, for example. In contrast, finding the passport of the most famous and wealthy missing person in the world was commonplace.

I regarded my find dubiously, like a dead caterpillar in my broccoli. Clearly I should report this and turn it into the appropriate authorities, but who might they be? The Gotham police? The FBI? The head of Waynetech? Interpol, perhaps? Interpol might make the most sense, as through Ms. Harris I had a contact there.

Of course, at that time I had no idea that the repercussions of my find would reverberate around the world, even as far as the highest mountain peaks of Tibet, and involve Suzume( who by then was renamed Yureiko) and myself in a....but the tale would take too long to tell and would be out of sequence. Suffice it to say it was complicated.

I decided not to do anything about the partial passport until I knew what the right course of action might be. For the time being, I locked it in the top drawer of my desk and went home at the end of the day as usual.

This being Thursday, ordinarily I would have had an evening class, but this was the start of Spring break. And a fortuitously timed break it was at that. I would have about a week and a half to get my head together in an unusually literal sense, to cultivate the nascent relationship I had with Suzume, even if I had no idea what form that relationship would ultimately take, and to work on Kemp. That raised the question of how I was going to establish friendly relations with Kemp. Perhaps if I sent him an e-mail to start--I could think it over that night.

As it happened, neither thought nor an e-mail was necessary on my part. Kemp was waiting in the garden for me when I got home. I am slightly unclear as to what occured after that, because one of my alter egos saw fit to take over. Namely, the Scarecrow.

* * *

Yeesh. Yeah, I headjacked Jonny-san when I saw Suzume out in the yard and Kemp sitting out on a bench behind her. (there's hijacking and carjacking, right? So this was headjacking) I mean I had to, because besides being a bit of a wuss, Jonny is one of the world's worst liars, and always has been. He blushes and stammers and gives the whole game away. When he was four and Great-granny caught him literally red-handed in the kitchen with an empty colander where there should have been a lot of strawberries, I tried to tell him that 'No' wouldn't cut it but he went ahead and said it anyway. And the way she punished him--it wasn't the praying or kneeling that was the problem, it was the kneeling on sharp gravel _while _he prayed that hurt.

Besides, Jon is a bit of a wuss. He's better than Dr. Crane, I'll give him that, but if I didn't supply the impetus nothing would get done. (Case in point, those 'odds and ends' he picked up were my idea. Two handsomely bound blank books with thick, cream colored linen-rag paper, a large one and a small one. The smaller one was for her poetry, the larger to begin a family register. Our family register. With a little luck, putting us down as married in that would satisfy her as far as our being married. Why show her Romeo and Juliet and not get some good out of it? After watching that, I was willing to bet her opinion of kissing would change, and I would eat both blank books if it didn't.)

The current situation called for the ability to weave truths, half-truths, and outright lies into a tapestry of bullshit so dazzling to the eye that Kemp never noticed the smell, so strong and tight an elephant could use it for a trampoline. I could do that--if I had somewhere to start.

"Professor Kemp," I addressed him, as stiffly as Dr. Crane would, "I certainly wasn't expecting to see you here, after my warnings. I take it they fell on deaf ears." Starting out in too friendly a manner would make him suspicious.

"I had intended to be far away by the time you returned, but after meeting your lovely Shoko, I changed my mind," he replied.

Shoko? I might not be Jonny or Dr. Crane, but we all use the same mental equipment and I could not only think as fast as they could, I could control my reactions better. Mitsuoko was a woman's name, as was Yoko, so Shoko had to be female as well. Suzume had given him a false name for some reason, and why didn't matter when it played so well to my advantage and her protection. "As winsome as Shoko is, I doubt you acted out of sheer gallantry. The answer is still no, and by all rights I should be calling the police."

"Call the police? I suppose you could do that--but on my part, I could call Immigration and tell them you have an illegal alien living with you. Of course, she might not be illegal yet. Has her tourist visa already expired, or do you intend to wait until it does to tell her you have no intention of marrying her legally here?"

Suzume was _brilliant_. She had managed to convince him she was a present-day living girl whose papers weren't quite all they should be. That was it. I/we were going to marry her no matter how Jonny dragged his feet. I can tell a good thing when I see it, and Suzume was more than good.

"Ssh!" I said, waving my hands at him and putting on a somewhat guilty expression. "Don't say--It isn't like that. We are married! That is-- _yes_, I'm going to marry her legally here, I would have before, but waiting on the spousal visa and papers would have taken--It seemed easier for her to come over on a tourist visa."

"But then you got caught up in the morass of red tape which is worse in Gotham City than anywhere else," he concluded, jocularly. "Couldn't figure out which palms to grease?" He made a tch-tch sound with his tongue against his cheek. "So here we are. You could call the police and get me arrested for trespassing, and I could break up love's young dream here--or you could grant me access to the materials I want to see so very much. The choice is yours."

"That's blackmail!" I declared, hotly, while I secretly rejoiced. Yes! He was doing all the work for me--or three quarters of it, at least. I wouldn't have to be too friendly at first, he would assume he was the one who was in control.

"I prefer to call it pragmatism. Are we agreed?" He smiled, certain of success.

"That's not enough," I balked. "Access, perhaps, but not unless I am present--and by my rules."

"Your rules?" he said, with an indulgent chuckle. "What rules do you have in mind?"

I took in a deep breath. Theater. This was all a form of theater. Delivery was important. "First," I said, making my voice break ever so slightly with anxiety, "you say nothing to Shoko about this arrangement. To her you are a colleague and a friend, nothing more."

"Agreed. Any others?"

"Yes! Second, no dropping in unannounced like this. If you want to see what I have, you can call in advance. I decide what to bring out and none of it leaves the premises unless I say so."

"Very well. Is that all?"

"Not quite. In return, I want to see what you have in your collection, whether it relates to Lady Suzume or not. Photographs and scans will do if you don't have them with you." He had to want to show off his little acquisitions, the not-so-legally obtained as well as the legitimate. I could then pass them along to Interpol.

"Whatever for?" Kemp raised a curious eyebrow.

"I have an interest in Asian art, as you can imagine. If you want the pleasure of talking about Lady Suzume Murasaki with someone who knows, then you'll agree. Otherwise, I'll be silent."

"That would depend on what you know." He transfixed me with his eye as he had the day before.

"We haven't even begun to discuss how we each of us separately tracked down her dowry chest to that auction. I have a document written by the man who locked it away that I _know_ you'll want to see."

"You...intrigue me. Yes, I would like to see that. We are agreed?"

"Yes. Now go."

"Not so fast, young man! When shall our first meeting be?"

"Tomorrow," I said. "At--four o'clock."

"Just in time for tea! I will see you then--and your lovely bride too, I hope."

He got up from the bench, and turn to walk down the garden path back to the park in the center of the Horseshoe. Perhaps it was just my imagination, but it seemed as though his shadow was unusually dense and dark.

* * *

A/N: As you may have guessed, the chapter title has nothing to do with the story and everything to do with my cat Hobbes. Again, I have to apologize if I failed to reply to your review or failed to review your story. Hobbes is still very sick and weak, and he has had some downturns in this past week. Nursing a cat who has to have so much assistance is time consuming and exhausting, but if I can get him through this it will be worth it. I will update when I can. Thank you for your kind wishes and support. They mean a lot to me.


	44. Theophobia: The Fear of Religion

Insomnia at an inn;

irritating, but someone out there

is playing a flute.

----Lady Suzume Murasaki, 1766-1790.

* * *

Satisfied that Jun-san would deal with Kemp-sensei, I went back inside and began dinner preparations, filling two pots with water, one for rice, the other for soup. If I only knew his comings and goings better, I could have everything ready for him when he returned and not be rushing around at the last moment all the time—not to mention eating first, as I should properly do so that I might serve him better. Fortunately he wasn't upset by my rudeness. Minoru would have flung the food across the room and stormed out had I sat down to eat with him. Hastily assembling vegetables on the cutting board, I blessed my mother's foresight in insisting that all her daughters learn how to do everything the servants did. That way we would know better how to direct them in their duties, and if there was a siege we would be able to cope. How I missed my mother! She was rare and wonderful. But she and everyone I ever knew was long since dead and forgotten...

My thoughts so distracted me that I chopped off my left index finger at the first joint. It was the sound, a 'thwack' rather than a 'chuff', not the pain which alerted me. I looked down to see a strange lump like an almond lying there—and the stump of my finger.

There was no blood. None at all. Both the piece and the stump were as smooth as though they had been healed over for years. I stood there for a moment staring at them like a farm girl gaping at the first geisha she's ever seen, and that was when Jun-san opened the door and came in. He saw me staring at my hands, and he stopped, a look of shock crossing his face. "It's all right," I told him. "It doesn't hurt. I'm sorry, it was an accident—."

Then I discovered I could make the fingertip move despite not being attached. Like a caterpillar, it hunched its way along the board, and Jun-san turned a color I was sure was unhealthy, a sort of greenish-mauve. "You're not going to throw up in here, are you?" I picked up my finger tip with the other hand and, unsure what to do with it, touched it to the stump. The two pieces rejoined without a trace—yet there was a little round scar from when my brother Omi's dog had bitten my, at the base of that same finger.

That was the moment I realized what I was, and why I was different from the ghost who followed Kemp-Sensei around. I was not a ghost at all. I was a _kami_. The difference was that being a ghost was a punishment for a soul who was too attached to the world, too emotional, whereas a kami was a being with an existence of its own. Now all the strange abilities I had made sense. The answer was so simple I could hardly believe I hadn't realized it before. That explained the difference between the Yukie-Onna and O-tsuyu.

The Yukie-Onna was the kami of snow, who could love and give life when in her peaceful aspect, just as fire cooks food and warms the house, but froze people to death in her violent aspect, as fire can burn down a house and devour lives. O-Tsuyu was a hungry ghost, plain and simple, and her lust consumed its object. Her lover was the only one blind to her true nature; all others saw a decayed corpse in his arms. And if I were a kami and not a simple ghost, that would mean a fear which I had buried at the back of my mind was groundless: that if we were to come together, Jun-san and I, that my touch would kill him. And the Emperor himself was called the Son of Heaven because he was descended from the Omi-kami herself, the sun goddess Amaterasu.

Explaining what a kami was to Jun-san took some time and all the resources on hand, including the translation device Jun-san had brought home for me. It proved not at all difficult to operate—the instructions said it was 'user-friendly', whatever_ that_ meant.

Was a kami the same as a soul?, Jun-san asked.

No, I explained. A soul was the immortal part of a living thing which existed before it was born, which lived and accumulated karma, both good and bad, and when its current body died, moved up or down the Wheel as it merited, forgetting its previous existence in the process. If it was very, very lucky, eventually it accrued enough virtue to achieve enlightenment and either leave the Wheel or return as a Bodhisattva to help others along their paths. Souls partook of the divine.

A kami was a strictly earthly spirit, although, confusingly, all gods were kami but not all kami, gods. People had kami, although most were only strong enough to become ancestor spirits and come back every summer for the Festival of the Dead. Animals had kami, trees and plants had kami, all of differing degrees, but things like rocks, rivers, and mountains also had kami. Great works of art definitely had kami—weren't there paintings and poems that had a life of their own? It wasn't just an expression. Swords could definitely have kami, if they were well-made swords, but not always beneficial ones. Some were as dangerous to those who wielded them as to those who opposed them.

All of this intelligence was rather bewildering to Jun-san, judging by how his forehead creased. His next question was if this was a Buddhist concept. I replied that no, it was a Shinto concept. In his wisdom, the first Tokugawa shogun had decreed that every family of the rank of Samurai and above should become Buddhist and register at an approved temple, but Shintoism and Buddhism were not mutually exclusive and most people were both. Shintoism filled in some of the gaps in Buddhism, in fact. By that time he was looking up Shintoism in his book and said it was 'primitive animism'.

I was not sure of what he meant by 'animism' but I rather resented the 'primitive' part, and told him that on the contrary, Shintoism was highly sophisticated and by following its emphasis on purity and cleanlieness, we were able to avoid the miasmas which caused contagion, infection, and disease. He looked bewildered again--perhaps the translation device was faulty?--and turned the conversation to Kemp-Sensei.

He told me that Kemp was a man of poor character and not to be trusted, which I knew already, but I am wise enough to know when to simply listen. A thief, a vandal, and a possible murderer, Kemp had an obsession with--

---with me.

* * *

A/N: This update has been a long time in coming. If you've read my profile in the last few weeks, you'll know why. My cat Hobbes is gone. Even now I have a hard time accepting that he is dead and not just in another room, that he won't come in looking for me and jump up in my lap for some much deserved love from Mom. Some mornings I still automatically fill two bowls with cat food, one for Hobbes and one for his brother Calvin. Calvin is still with us, and thanks to Gilbert, a stray who decided he was ours, he's not grieving that I can tell. He still has a cat buddy, so he's okay.

My husband loved Hobbes too, but Hobbes was always more strongly attached to me and I to him. Who knows why? Hobbes loved me unconditionally and generously, endlessly. In the time that he was mine he brought me nothing but happiness, laughter, comfort, tranquility, and peace. Pure love wrapped up in fur, that was him.

Grief is more complicated than just sorrow at the loss of a loved one. It comes with guilt and anger and the awareness of one's own mortality. These murky depths of emotion come in waves that threaten to drown me, and at times over these last few weeks I've been just barely treading water. I think I'm over the worst of it, but I still cry every day. What I believe in terms of an afterlife and matters of the spirit--well, I'm not sure if I believe in Heaven and Hell, but I know I believe in peace and quiet.

I also believe that if any creature has a soul, then Hobbes did, and if there is an afterlife and somehow I merit Heaven despite myself, then it won't be complete without him. In the meantime, I'm volunteering at a local animal shelter as a cat socializer, teaching young, feral and abused cats and kittens to trust and love humans so they can find forever homes. It's a win-win situation--theraputic for both sides. Maybe I will find my next special little guy there, who knows?


	45. Lockiophobia: The Fear of Childbirth

A new blank book—

My words run and hide,

Afraid they might mar it.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

(A/N: Perceptive readers such as yourself will realize that Jon's account of the conversation is different than Suzume's. Any two person's accounts of a conversation will be different unless they're telling a previously agreed-upon fabrication.)

If I had to come up with a metaphor for myself and my _selves_, I would compare us to a massive tree whose trunk divides into three large branches. No matter how violently the winds may cause the branches to clash, we were still a single organism. No branch could survive being broken off from the tree and live to take root on its own—and the tree as a whole would be weakened by the loss, perhaps irreparably.

Certain events had a way of bringing that truth into sharp focus, such as returning to the kitchen only to find Suzume gazing at her severed fingertip and stump with an expression of mild shock, then sticking the tip back on as if it were putty. Scarecrow was jolted out of the saddle, and neither Dr. Crane nor Jun-san gained ascendancy immediately. So while I remember the following conversation quite well, it is as one person, not three, but one person with three wildly divergent opinions and a limbic system which had ideas of its own.

Suzume started to explain what she thought she was and why it was the perfect answer with the help of first the dictionary and then the translator, but while we communicated remarkably well for two people without a common language, understanding shinotism was a little beyond my grasp. A kami seemed to me to be something like the nature spirits and household gods of Greco-Roman mythology, creatures such as the dryads, nereids, lares, penates and numen, but with a touch of The Little Mermaid in there as well—the Hans Christian Andersen original with the unhappy ending, not the prettied-up Disney cartoon. Lacking a human soul, the Mermaid will become sea-foam when she dies, and by giving up her tail for legs she gives up not only her voice but her three-hundred year lifespan. If she marries a human, the prince she loves, she will gain an immortal soul through him. The prince loves her--she becomes his 'favorite'--but he does not marry her, but obediently falls in love with the princess of a neighboring kingdom. Her sisters sell their hair to the Sea Witch for a knife which will restore her tail and her long life--if she kills the Prince and his bride on his wedding night. Refusing to kill her lover, she becomes a Spirit of the Air when she dies, her selfless act having redeemed her. I had always thought it a rather heavy-handed allegory about the danger of a girl giving up her virtue before she was safely married, but Suzume's explanation of kami shed a different light upon it.

I would have dismissed Shinto as an outmoded nature religion had it not included a surprisingly accurate understanding of how diseases were transmitted and how to avoid getting infected, including the concept that the cause was something invisible but real. That had me baffled--it was like opening the Bible to discover that somewhere in Numbers was the solution to Fermat's Last Theorum, written millennia before Fermat was born.

Returning to the topic of kami, Suzume then told me that although liasions between ghosts and living people were always doomed, because the dead gradually siphoned off the life force of the breathing partner, unions between humans and kami weren't dangerous, and that the Emperors of Japan were proof of that because they were descended from the goddess Amaterasu, who was a kami, and that the Snow-Woman-Spirit had given her woodcutter husband ten living children before he broke his promise and she had to return to freezing people to death. This confused me still further, and it was only later that I could track down all the references she was making.

So, according to Suzume, although her marriage to Minoru had not been fruitful, now that she was a Kami she had hope that things might be different. It was the grief of her life that she had no children, as well as the root of the unpleasantness with her mother-in-law. If she had given Minoru healthy sons, his mother would never have poisoned her. Was it not possible that the rift between me and my father' family might be healed if I could show my father his grandchild's face? She did not wait for a reply, but put down the translator and rushed to the stove, taking the lid off a bubbling pot to strew what looked like wood shavings into it. Since then I have learned that it was dried bonito, or skipjack tuna, and it was probably better that I didn't know at the time. I would never have thought that tuna fish broth would make for a good soup. There was not a trace of fishy taste to the finished dish; some magic of cooking skills.

I was about to type into my laptop that there was no rift between my father and I because the existence of a rift would imply that there had at one time been a relationship of some kind between us, some bond other than that of sperm donor, when I realized she was not asking me about my father. She was tactfully asking me if_ I_ wanted to have children. Possibly with her.

My first reaction was purely physical, straight from the central nervous system to the relevant tools for making Suzume pregnant, a non-verbal 'Hell, Yes!', bypassing the brain entirely. My secondary reaction was three-fold, each persona having his own opinion in the matter. Dr. Crane's thought was, 'Why not? Am I not a man like other men? It would be a crime to let the genes for my intellect die with my body.' Scarecrow, meanwhile, was thinking, 'Okay, but I'd like a year or more to practice my baby-making skills before any chromosomes get combined, and when they do it's damned well going to be planned,' and Jun-san weighed in with, 'That's a huge commitment--and she's so tiny! What if the baby was too big for her?' Which was possibly the most nonsensical thought of all, because not only is the chance of dying in child-birth in America today practically nil, but a mother-to-be who could sever and reattach fingers without feeling pain or losing blood was unlikely to have problems merely delivering a baby.

However, both my mental confusion and my physical reaction persuaded me that it was time to turn the conversation to a less provocative topic. Namely, Kemp. Hastily I answered, 'I don't know,' to her question, and started typing in what I knew of the sinister professor, pausing to translate sentence by sentence. The news that he was a possible murderer did not disturb her nearly as much as learning he was obsessed with her. Why would he be obsessed with her? she wanted to know. And more to the point, _how_ could he be obsessed with her?

I explained that he was the one who found the jacket she had so patiently sewn for Junaemon, and the impassioned words embroidered into the lining. 'Since then,' I typed, 'he has looked for further evidence of you everywhere, sometimes stealing or destroying what he could not buy. No living woman can live up to the ideal image he has formed of you in his mind.'

She used the translator to tell me 'Then she was right to tell me not to give him my name.'

'Who?' I asked, both out loud and via my computer.

"Naomi-san." Suzume replied out loud. I had not said anything yet about who Kemp was thought to have killed, so hearing that name was quite surprising. She then went on to tell me about the ghost who followed Kemp around as closely as his shadow, describing the face of a suffocation victim who still had the murder weapon, a plastic bag, over her head. The passionate intensity of Naomi Miyabe's hatred came though despite the translator's dispassionate rendering, thanks to the expression on Suzume's face. 'She is waiting for him." Suzume concluded. 'She is waiting for his life to end so that she can have her revenge.'

* * *

A/N: My thanks to all the people who are putting up with my slow updates and general lack of energy and responses of the last month and a half. I'm getting better slowly. The volunteer work is helping.


	46. Teleophobia: The Fear of Definite Plans

Watching him sleep—

his eyelids like clouds

obscuring the sky.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

All right—so the ghost of Naomi Miyabe had been communicating with Suzume. Having experienced a moment of something like reintegration, when my selves were more like conflicting thoughts in my head than separate personalities, I didn't want to lose that. Dwelling too much on the 'how' and 'why' and 'what proof is there?' was liable to send 'Dr. Crane' back into his fetal position from denial. Skim over that, concentrate on the message, not the medium—a very bad pun.

Suzume went on to tell me that Kemp claimed he and Naomi were engaged, which her ghost denied vehemently. But why, Suzume wondered, had he never been arrested and tried for his crimes?

I typed and translated 'There is no proof, and the crimes took place far apart in both time and distance', while Suzume then strained out the wood shavings and added vegetables to the broth.

After she had read my reply, she picked up the translator, and somehow or other turned on the audio feature, so her reply was read aloud in English by a flat, computerized voice at far too high a volume, "Hasn't he been questioned under torture?" She was so startled she dropped the device on the counter.

I picked it up and turned down the volume to something more subtle, then went back to my computer. I started to type, 'Torture is no longer legal,' but visions of Abu Gharib and Guantanamo came to my mind, and I wrote, 'No. His crimes are too subtle. However, an international police force is investigating him, and I am going to help them get proof.'

She read that, and then used the translator to say, "It is commendable that you should aid them, but will you not be in danger?" The machine read it aloud, and she repeated the sentence carefully and almost perfectly. She had a good ear and a good memory; given that in general women have greater facility in language while men have a greater aptitude for math, she would probably pick up English faster than I could learn Japanese.

I typed and translated (quite wrongly as it turned out), 'Kemp is not violent, and by doing this I will earn your identity papers. The police force, which is called "Interpol", can arrange a legal identity for you. Do you speak Korean?'

The question threw her off slightly. "Yes. Our old nurse was Korean, and we learned it from her. Is it important?" She repeated the sentences as the translator spoke them; as she did this for the rest of the conversation, I will stop mentioning it.

'Yes. It is too complicated to explain now, but for various reasons it is easier to create a Korean identity for you than a Japanese one. However, to make this work, you must speak Korean very well.'

"I do speak Korean very well." she asserted. Hopefully she was correct in her self-estimation, and hopefully the Korean language had not changed very much. "Korea is really part of Japan, ever since the Empress Jingo conquered it over a millennium ago. Poor management lost it again, but someday we will conquer it again."

I knew enough about Korean and Japanese history both to know that yes, Japan had conquered Korea, among other countries, and subsequently lost them again, and that there was still coldness between the nations. 'If you are going to pass for Korean, you cannot make statements like that. Again, it is too complicated to explain, but in the last century there were many wars and Korea still does not feel very friendly toward Japan. Neither does China.'

"But this translator was made in China," Suzume pointed out. She had a great deal to learn about the intervening two centuries.

'Intelligent nations do not let history get in the way of commerce,' I pontificated. 'The translator was made for an American company by a branch located in China.' I remembered what else I had found in the package, and I frowned.

Suzume noticed. "What are you thinking of?" she asked. "Is something troubling you?"

'Nothing is wrong.' She still looked worried, so I explained, 'I found part of someone's passport in with the translator, and I don't know what to do about it.' Before I knew it, I was explaining about who Bruce Wayne was, and delving into both the democratic process and the American criminal courts as well. It was a sharp reminder of just how different our two worlds were—and of how little had changed.

* * *

It is not that I am deficient in understanding, or that Jun-san is bad at explaining, but the vast difference between what I know and what he knows that causes confusion. ( Although I am not sure he understands much better than I do exactly what a 'multinational conglomerate' is.) This much, however, I gleaned. The Daimyos of Gotham City are the Waynes. I know this because they were the ones who caused the 'monorail' which carries people around, to be built. As the Daimyo of Echigo, my father ordered that bridges be built and that roads be maintained, as a responsible leader does. Besides, I do not believe I understood this 'voting' correctly. If everyone can vote, not only intelligent, literate people but those of little sense and less wisdom, and every vote is of equal value, then elections would become a mere contest of popularity. Base-born actors and sumo wrestlers might easily be elected over men of great learning and superior judgment because entertainers know better how to sway a crowd! I cannot be understanding this correctly.

The last Daimyo was Thomas Wayne, who was murdered with his wife Martha when their only son was but a boy. The murderer was not executed or permitted to disembowel himself honorably, or even exiled to labor in a silver mine for the rest of his life, but merely incarcerated for a time, which seems impossible to me. Prison is simply a place where criminals are held until it is decided what to do with them.

Jun-san says the death penalty is forbidden in this province. How can a society function when there is no death penalty for such a severe crime? If all that happens is that a killer is locked up for a while, with meals provided for him every day, and he is even allowed entertainments and exercise, and if he behaves himself he is set free, then what is there to discourage killing? If the beggars in the streets knew that slipping a knife between a man's ribs was all that was needed to assure them of a roof over their heads and all those other luxuries, then it would not be safe to walk the streets! And why was Thomas Wayne out with his wife without any samurai or any other retainers in attendance upon them? They were simply asking to be ambushed.

When I pointed all this out to Jun-san, he took off those wire-rimmed glass things he wears on his face and he pinched the bridge of his nose. I offered to rub his forehead for him if his head ached, but he said, no, he was fine, but that America in this time was very different from my Japan, and to take his word for it that depriving a man of his freedom was considered a punishment.

So time went by since the Waynes were murdered, and their killer was housed with a very important Yakusa leader named Red Falcon. This 'Falcon' was indiscreet in front of the killer, and so the killer learned of many crimes which the Yakusa's men carried out at his behest. In exchange for testifying about those crimes, the killer was to go free. The young lord Wayne, who had not yet come of age or completed his education, was there at the 'parole board meeting'.

"He meant to kill his parents' murderer," I predicted. "A man cannot live under the same sky as the killer of his father, not without dishonoring his name. Nor should he have to. It would be a crime against nature, filial piety and the gods if he did not kill his parents' murderer. He ought to have gone to the Shogun or the Emperor and obtained a permit of vengeance in advance."

Jun-san pinched the bridge of his nose again before he told me there were no such things here in America. In any case, the young lord Bruce Wayne did not get to carry out his vengeance—.

"Because the Red Falcon had the murderer killed," I said. Really, it was quite obvious what had happened. "It is a great pity that the young lord did not have better advisors. The proper advisor would have arranged matters so that the murderer was never released, or that he met with his death many years before, or given his lord Wayne a chance to redress the murders honorably. I know all about these sorts of things; I listened to my father when he was at work, and then I spent seven years in the Inner Household, which was no picnic most of the time. Have you ever heard of the Forty-seven Ronin?"

He looked it up in his book, and then said yes, it had been made into movies several times.

"Well, most versions focus on the ronin, because they embodied the true spirit of samurai, but the story begins when two young daimyos, Lord Kamei and Lord Takumi, were appointed by the Shogun to receive the Imperial envoys. Since they did not know how things should be done, a protocol officer was assigned to instruct them, Lord Yoshinaka. Of course Kamei and Takumi gave him presents as they should have, but they were young and new and didn't know their way around. Lord Yoshinaka was a greedy man and he thought the presents weren't sufficient, so he made fun of them and told them the wrong things until both the young lords were ready to challenge him at the next meeting.

"Lord Kamei had a good advisor, who thought things over, and then of his own accord got together all the silver he could and went to Lord Yoshinaka's retainers, and said, 'My master Lord Kamei wishes to thank Lord Yoshinaka for the troubles he has taken to instruct him, and sends him this thousand ryo of silver, and here is a hundred ryo for you to distribute among yourselves. It was inelegantly done—too much, and too crudely. Cash should never change hands directly—but it was effective. Lord Yoshinaka changed his tune toward Lord Kamei the very next day. But Lord Takumi did not have such a good advisor, and so Lord Yoshinaka kept on provoking him until Lord Takumi drew his sword upon him while the Imperial Envoy was under the same roof. That was treason, so Lord Takumi had to commit suicide that day. His forty-seven samurai became ronin, masterless men, at his death. So they got together and formed a plan to avenge their master's honor and that's where the story goes from there. But it all could have been prevented if Lord Takumi had the right advisor. What happened to the young lord Wayne then?"

Jun-san blinked and had to regain his thoughts. (I often have that effect on people.) 'He went abroad, and no one knows what happened to him then.'

"He didn't take any samurai or retainers and servants with him, did he?"

Jun-san said no, he didn't think so.

"Then nobody would know who he was. Young noblemen sometimes get romantic notions about seeing the world incognito, but they never find it satisfactory. They expect their native virtue will shine out through their rags. I mean, if the Shogun decided to visit Hokkaido alone, got into trouble and tried to get out of it by saying, 'I'm the Shogun', people would laugh at him. If he traveled in state, that would be another story. This translator was made by Lord Bruce's company over in China, so he must have been visiting that part of his fief. He got into some trouble and lost his papers with his proof of identity, and nobody knew who he was. So he must still be there

"I understand everything now. It was not by chance that you found part of his passport. It is karma that you should have found it, and found me, and once this business with Kemp is cleared up, and I have identity papers, we will go to where Lord Wayne disappeared, trace his path, and bring him back. Lord Bruce will succeed his father as Daimyo of Gotham City and put things to rights. Then we will be rewarded with lands, money and honors, and you will become his advisor and I will help because I know how things are done and you know what this world is like."

Jun-san looked very bewildered for a moment. Then he told me he did not believe in karma.

"That doesn't matter." I informed him. "What matters is that karma believes in you."

He did not look reassured in the least.

* * *

A/N: Longer than the last, and quicker. I must be doing better...


	47. Theatrophobia:Fear of the Theatrical

Sometimes I wish I could see my first husband again

Just to tell him what I think of him:

Inadequate, useless,

Less of a man

Than his mother.

Then I remember why I don't want to see him ever again.

---Yureiko Tsuruta* Crane.

* * *

At the time, when Suzume cheerfully predicted what the future would hold, I didn't know whether to laugh or get angry or bang my head against the kitchen counter. She believed it so sincerely...Of course it wasn't her fault that she believed in such rubbish, any more than it was her fault she couldn't conceive of a justice system without capital punishment.

That, of course, was before Alfred Pennyworth, the man who held Bruce Wayne's power of attorney, came to me (or rather to us) with a proposition so extraordinary no one could refuse it, before Lucius Fox opened the doors of a veritable Aladdin's Cave of advanced technology and told us to take whatever we needed, and long before the Sherpas all deserted the crazy American doctor and his weird Japanese wife half way up a mountain because they were more afraid of the people who lived in the fortress.

Today, safely back in Gotham City, I wonder-- was it predestined, after all, or was it simply Suzume's indomitable determination which hewed the future into the shape she imagined there in that kitchen?

Right then I thought it better to redirect the conversation, so I typed and translated a question that had been shoved to the back of my mind by other concerns, namely Kemp, 'If you can be seen in the daytime, how is it I never see you in the morning?'

She replied via the translator, "My husband did not like to be disturbed until after breakfast."

Probably because he was hung-over half the time, I thought, and told her 'I am not like him. I would rather that we ate together.' I didn't know what I said to get me such a look of surprise, but she bobbed her head and said, "Hai!"

It seemed as good a moment as any, so I took the blank books out of the bag and translated what I had to say about them while Suzume ground up walnuts in a mortar and pestle. I handed her the smaller book. 'This is for your poetry.'

She wiped her hands carefully before she took it, as carefully as if it were a living thing. Opening it, she leafed through the blank pages, feeling the quality of the paper. On her face was an expression I knew: wary, hopeful, a little wonder and a great deal of vulnerability. Such was my face when a teacher or someone like that took an interest in me. My life had very few kindnesses in it, and I did not suppose hers did after she left her father's house. "Arigato gozaimasu." she said. I understood her perfectly.

I gave her the other. 'I thought perhaps some day this might be a family register.'

That one floored her. She did not know what to say, and right at that moment one of the pots on the stove boiled over, the foam hissing as it touched the burner. Suzume set the books aside and leapt to turn the heat down, then wiped the mess away. Frowning at the dirty towel, she picked up the translator. "Jun-san, can you please tell me where I may hang the wash out to dry?"

That made me smile. 'After we watch the movie I will show you the washing machine and dryer.'

Incomprehension was written all over her face, but she nodded. What a tangle of contradictions she was—ignorance and knowledge—she could have given Machiavelli a few hints on power politics, yet thought America must function as Edo Japan had. She had an air of innocence about her, but I knew her marriage had been consummated. She looked as though a strong breeze would send her flying, but just two nights ago, she had strangled a man with her hair.

She wasn't normal by 21st American standards. She was an aristocrat down to her fingernails, born and brought up into a world where from the earliest age, people were indoctrinated to commit suicide on command. I'd read about it: hara-kiri, seppuku, where men would cut open their bellies to atone for a fault which they might not even have committed personally. Women were allowed to cut their throats. An entire family might be sentenced to die in that way for the misdeeds of one member. And she believed that was how the world should work. Would she ever be normal?

Would I ever be normal? My personae were waiting for another fracture to make themselves known again.

My train of thought was interrupted by an e-mail from Mitsuoko Harris. '_I have passed on your contact information to my contacts at Interpol. The American National Central Bureau will be contacting you shortly_.'

Very shortly, as it turned out. A moment later the phone rang, making Suzume jump. I answered.

"Hello? Is this Doctor Crane?" The voice was that of a man about my age. He sounded like a white South Afrikaner.

"Yes.", I replied.

"Very good. My apologies for disturbing you at this hour. I am Criminal Intelligence Officer Maarten Hendrickje of Interpol. I am calling on behalf of Senior Criminal Intelligence Officer Banning. She would like to meet with you at your earliest convenience concerning Professor Alisdair Kemp. Unfortunately it will take us at least two days to reach Gotham City, but we will be there by Friday evening at the latest."

"All right. You certainly aren't wasting any time, are you?"

"The Property Crimes: Fine Art division has been frustrated by Professor Kemp for a long time.", he said. "If there is a chance of recovering the missing objects and holding him accountable, we will grasp it with speed."

"I agree with your goals completely. I will be here; contact me when you arrive."

"Thank you very much, Doctor Crane." I ended the call to discover that dinner was ready. Half a dozen different dishes, divided into portions for two were now spread out over the counter. Suzume had taken the trouble to arrange them to look as attractive as they smelled. Rice with carrot, bamboo shoots, mushrooms, some sort of green leafy vegetable and chicken, asparagus with ground walnut dressing, a clear soup with chunks of...something, little cylinders of spinach with sesame seeds, beans with a topping I couldn't identify, and tiny new potatoes with onion. Some of it was hot and some was cold and all of it was delicious. Not heavy, not overseasoned, not too much, and all of it healthful.

"It's wonderful," I said. Having someone who took so much trouble to feed me was unique in my experience, and she watched me anxiously out of the corner of her eye every time I tried a bite of something new, hoping I would like it, relaxing only when I smiled and took another. I liked the feeling of being cared about.

After dinner there was Romeo and Juliet, directed by Franco Zeffirelli. It took a little persuading to get her to sit in a chair next to me rather than kneel on the floor, but I won. It would be difficult to hold her hand if we were sitting at different heights. Whatever the Scarecrow aspect's motive was in choosing that, I was a little concerned about whether the story and themes would come across. Shakespeare is universal, but not all of the plays carry over into every culture.

For example, I was certain Hamlet would not go over well with Suzume because she would say that if someone's father's ghost appeared and told them to do something then that person should go and do it right away. Especially if the ghost said he had been murdered. There would be no hanging around for several acts dithering, putting on puppet shows and stabbing old men behind the arras or traipsing off to England with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Hamlet would have gone straight to Uncle Claudius and done the deed, and consequently the whole play would be about fifteen minutes long. Of course, Kurosawa had triumphantly adapted Macbeth and Lear into Throne of Blood and Ran respectively, so it clearly depended on the play itself.

Romeo and Juliet posed no such cultural barriers. If anything, Suzume loved it more than she had The Seven Samurai, although the skin-tight particolor hose on the young men made her giggle. The sumptous costumes and authentic settings were especially exotic and intriguing to her, while the social structure was very much like the world she knew, with a few important differences, mainly to do with the roles of women in society. The feast at the Capulets surprised her a great deal because (she told me later) ladies did not attend parties like those, and they especially did not dance in mixed company, with the genders mixing. That was the sort of party geisha attended, as paid entertainers, not as guests.

Just as I had thought her singing bad the previous day, her reaction to the song, 'What is a Youth?' confirmed my surmise that the traditional vocal music of Japan was extremely different from the music of the western world. The famous song about how fleeting youth, beauty and life are made her cover her ears. She hated it. Instrumental music was fine with her, but the singing style was so different from the one she was used to that it was not even a song, just caterwauling. As the song came at the pivotal scene where Romeo and Juliet meet for the first time, I couldn't skip over it, but I turned the sound down to spare her ears.

Leonard Whiting as Romeo took Olivia Hussey's hand, and Juliet started at the sudden intimacy. Deeply thrilled yet apprehensive, she traded witty words with him as if she was inventing them as she went along. Both at the height of their youth and beauty, the attraction between them incandescant, they seemed to live their roles. Suzume watched, rapt and ardent, and I watched her. She gasped when they touched and trembled while they flirted. When Juliet realized who it was she loved so suddenly and so passionately, Suzume suffered with her.

When the scene changed, while Romeo evaded his friends to head back to the Capulet household in hopes of another glimpse of Juliet, I reached over and took Suzume's hand. Her palm was warm and dry, her fingertips faintly cool. She started at my touch, but she didn't pull away, and gradually she relaxed. Until the promiscuous kissing started on screen. She was shocked, even scandalized, but at the same time, a bit excited too. Her hand grew moist in mine--and she did not pull away. Through the rest of the movie, I was as aware of her as is she were a part of my own body.

I don't suppose there are many educated people in the modern world who don't know how Romeo and Juliet ends, the plot twists and mischances which lead inevitably to their dual suicide, so much has Shakespeare become part of mass culture. Suzume went into it without any forewarning, and spent every moment until the very last hoping it would turn out all right, literally quivering on the edge of her seat with anxiety on behalf of the star-crossed pair. Consequently the ending devastated her. She cried out, "Ieeeyh!," 'No!' when Romeo drank the poison and was already sobbing when Juliet awoke in the tomb. She continued weeping until the credits rolled and I stopped the disc.

Her face was streaming when she turned to me to say--what? I don't know what she would have said, because she stopped short, looking at me strangely, and it was she who leaned over the space between our chairs to place a tentative, feathery kiss on my mouth.

* Tsuruta (named in honor of J-Horror director Norio Tsuruta; Ringu 0: Birthday) means 'Crane-rice field', making Suzume's future last names Crane-rice field Crane. A very auspicious name, as two cranes symbolize a long and happy married life and rice fields symbolize abundance.


	48. Fuguphobia:The Fear of Pufferfish Poison

I don't need to eat _fugu_ for my thrills.

Kissing him is enough.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

After dinner, we watched Romeo and Juliet. Jun-san said the movie was a version of a play written centuries ago by a very great playwright, Shakespeare, and the settings and costumes were true to the time and place. I looked at the case in which it came while Jun-san readied the device which played it, wishing I could read what it said, and I remembered something I had meant to ask him before. Using the translator, I said, "Is it usual for women to play women's roles? In Japan, at least in my time, women are forbidden from performing in public because it leads to lewd displays, incites immorality, and is a front for unlicensed prostitution, besides provoking brawls among patrons over who will next enjoy an actress' favors."

He smiled and said though his wondrous book, 'Such was the case in Shakespeare's time as well. Young boys whose voices had not yet broken played the women's parts. But today women can hold any job they want to.'

I passed over that last part because it was absurd, and replied. "No, when young men took women's roles, they were just as lewd, immoral and provocative, so women of all ages are played mostly by middle aged men who specialize in impersonating women. Sometimes they're quite homely and stout men, but when costumed and made up, the illusion is convincing. From a distance in a crowded theatre, anyway. Close up their mannerisms are perfect, but their features are coarse. Acting like a beautiful woman is different from, and much more important than, being beautiful. The one is inborn, while the other must be learned. But in movies, the face and its expressions are seen very close up. I thought perhaps that was why women play women in movies. It is not the same as appearing on stage, where every move, every emotion must project to the rafters. Movies are very close up, very intimate, are they not?"

He nodded agreement and started the movie. For some reason he wanted me to sit in a chair like he did, and because he was so insistant I did, even though I found it rather uncomfortable. It was different than The Seven Samurai in that it was in color, that was what I noticed first, and this time it was I who read the words as they were spoken. Fortunately I am a very good and fast reader, but as I was not used to reading lines like that, I missed that the play was actually a love-suicide drama.

If I had known that from the start, I would have taken against the play, because love-suicides in Kabuki theatre are so formulaic: Destitute young young man meets expensive young courtesan, and they fall in love, but they can't marry because he can't afford to buy out her contract with the brothel keeper, so they commit suicide together, and then the censors come around and ban its performance because of copycat suicides in the same style. The only interesting thing is how they decide to do it-- will it be poison, drowning, with his sword, with her knife, or will they hang themselves?

Instead, this was about a girl of a noble family, and a young man who was the only son of a wealthy lord, and their families were enemies. Otherwise, being of equal rank and fortune, nothing could have been more suitable than that they marry. Their eldest son could then succeed as the head of the Montagues and their second son as the head of the Capulets, taking his mother's father's name and so continue the line. But their karma was against them--and this was how the entire intent of the drama differed. Love-suicides happen when a couple cannot marry, and it is their karma that they cannot marry because in some past life they broke their vows to one another. Everyone knows that. But in Romeo and Juliet, they did not intend to die in a love pact, and they did marry. (Although how a marriage can take place without the heads of their families knowing I still don't quite understand.) It did not seem to be their karma which doomed them, but more their families' karma, as if the gods punished the parents through their children. That is neither fair nor right. If their parents had done wrong in that life then they should suffer for it in the next incarnation.

It was written as if Shakespeare believed each person lives only once and has only that life in which to make things right. Perhaps that is what Europeans believe. I should ask Jun-san.

As far as women playing women goes, I am torn, for in some respects it seems to me that I have never been so moved by a performance as by that of Juliet, and that she embodied all the thoughts and emotions I have and feel, and then I recall the dancing and the kissing, which would cause the censors to come down upon the offending theatre with all the weight of Mount Fuji, because it was lewd and indecent and provocative--but there again I am not sure. In a theatre it might be bad to show so much nudeness and sexuality, but in private it seems different, and kissing seems normal. So normal that I kissed Jun-san.

I did not think about it beforehand. I did not plan it. When the movie ended I was in such turmoil, moved by the performance, and thinking about how good Jun-san has been to me, how he had wanted to kiss me the night before and I had rebuffed him--worse than rebuffed him. There were so many things I wished to say to him, that I needed to say to him, but the translation device, wonderful as it is, would take too long. So I kissed him.

Kissing Jun-san is like eating fugu sashimi made by a very skilled itamae, one who knows how to leave just enough poison in the fish to make the lips and tongue tingle.

Then I was worried that he might think me too bold, or that I had done it wrong, but he smiled, and then we kissed again, and--it is not as though I have never felt longings, that I have never been stirred to desire. Quite the reverse, which was one of many reasons why marriage to Minoru was such a disappointment all around. After a while I came to accept that passion, like so many other things in life, promises more than its achievement delivers, no matter the shunga book said. But nothing that took place with Minoru was as intense as kissing Jun-san. My body seemed alive to me in a way that it had never done before, and I was frightened. Not of him, but of what I felt, what I wanted. When we broke apart, I was so fraught with turmoil that rather than face it, and him, that I melted into air, and stayed there the rest of the night.

* * *

After that first kiss, she looked surprised, even amazed, and also a little worried. So I smiled to let her know it was all right, and we kissed again. This time it lastedlonger and it was deeper and left us both flushed and breathless. She didn't need to breathe, true, but I did and at some point one simply has to come up for air. I had kissed women before, a lab partner, two or three of the dates that began on line and went nowhere, but--It's different with different people. I already found her very attractive, and that kiss confirmed what I had guessed: we had chemistry. She returned my kiss with equal fervor, but when it ended, she looked skittish as a semi-feral cat, wanting to get nearer to a friendly-seeming human but afraid to. Then she vanished.

It's disconcerting to have one's partner disappear post-kiss, but if Suzume had stayed--If she had stayed, there was really only one place we would have ended up, and that was somewhere that neither of us was completely ready to go, not yet, whatever the Scarecrow might think or say about it. Well, yes, on a certain level I was, at least right at that moment, but who was to say my confidence, so to speak, wouldn't flag at the wrong moment? And I was nervous, not so much on account of erectile disfunction--after, there are medications for that--but of being clumsy and unskilled, as bad as or worse than her husband. I might know all about female responses in theory, but there is a great deal of difference between reading about something and actually doing it. I sat there in my chair for a moment.

"Suzume?" I called. She did not answer. I got up and put the dishes away, my thoughts turning to Kemp. 'I', at that time, was thinking as a single person, not as the alters, a rare moment of focus before the kalidescope turned and ruined the current pattern, and my thinking was as clear and balanced as I could wish it. Tomorrow I would share the typewritten document with him, teasing him with what other things I might have that I wasn't sharing. The next day...the next _night_ the investigators from Interpol should be there. They would want me to wait for them, but I had other ideas already in mind. Tomorrow I would bait Kemp, lead him on, let him think he was the one in control. The day after, I would tell him I had gotten the chest open. That would fetch him. I could dole out the wonders, one by one, demanding that he show me what he had in return. Perhaps I would even offer to swap--one item of Suzume's for one item from the list of stolen art objects. What would he give to own Suzume's writing desk, or her make-up case? A little jade water pot which had belonged to her ancestress, a tea scoop carved by Sen-no-Rikyu? More? I would need to record these transactions--.

Looking around the kitchen, my gaze lit on the webcam which I had purchased to catch 'the creature' in the act of eating the goldfish and never used. I could use that. If I had that kitchen table and chairs I was thinking about getting, I could position the camera so as to capture every detail, every word. Suzume and I could go shopping tomorrow and buy them, plus some of the other things we needed. Yes, that was it.

I felt the corners of my mouth stretch up in a wide, predatory smile. Nailing Kemp would be very, _very_ enjoyable...

* * *

A/N: Kabuki theater, which is known for its fantastic costumes and extreme make-up, began as an all-female troupe of actresses who put on plays which were much more avant-garde and challenging than the Noh theater of the day, which had become highly stylized and all-male. As with so many other endeavors which began equally, such as making movies and flying planes, as soon as men realized there was serious money to be made in that field, they pushed women out. (No lie. There were lots of women directors in the early history of film and plenty of women pilots besides Amelia Earheart. She wasn't even the best--just the most photogenic.)

Incidentally, even though all actors in Kabuki had to be (and still are) adult men, the unlicensed prostitution did not stop. Kabuki actors were notorious for accepting 'presents' from their 'patrons', both male and female. They were just more discreet about services rendered. Kabuki plays became highly stylized and formulaic, but there was considerable room for personal interpretation, as actors could and did switch to lines from another play in mid performance if they didn't think the current lines were going over well. Nevertheless, it is one of the great art forms. Many of the plays are still performed today, and plenty of movies have been made from them.

Sashimi, like sushi, is a raw fish dish. Sushi is always made with rice; sashimi is fish eaten on its own. It's also considered more serious food than sushi, which is more like snack food. It takes a great deal of skill and technique with a knife to turn a raw fish into an edible dish; cut a particular fish wrong, and it can become tough and tasteless. A professional sushi and/or sashimi chef is called an itamae. Again, it's an all male profession. Women can make sushi and sashimi, but the highest rank they can attain, whatever their skill, is that of 'cook'. Again, if there's any real money to be made in a career, women get shoved out.

Certain species of fugu, also known as pufferfish or blowfish, have a deadly poison called tetrodotoxin concentrated in their internal organs. The first symptom of fugu poisoning is a tingling feeling in the lips and mouth which changes to numbness, much like an injection of Novocaine. Higher doses lead to paralysis and death by suffocation as the lungs cease to function. Interestingly, the poison does not affect the brain, so the fugu poison victim is fully conscious and aware of what is going on while they are dying.

One fish can contain enough poison to kill as many as thirty people, and not every itamae is qualified to prepare it for human consumption. The fugu chef exam is so strict that it has a sixty-five percent fail rate. Nowadays it is mostly amateur fishermen who catch and prepare fugu at home who die of it, but the most famous person to eat fugu and die in the last century was Bando Mitsugoro VIII, probably the finest Kabuki actor of his generation. He insisted on ordering and eating _four servings_ of fugu liver over the objections of the chef and died seven hours later. It would be clever and ironic to report that he was a professional female impersonator, tying this footnote together neatly, but he was not. He specialized in playing reckless warrior heroes.


	49. Kenophobia: The Fear of Empty Places

No matter how poised--

No matter how pretty--

There is always someone who is more.

Get over it.

--Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

My idea of taking Suzume along to choose new furnishings for the house was scotched, however, by her refusal.

"To my mind, all the furniture a house needs are cushions to kneel upon, table trays from which to take one's meals, chests for storage, and futons for sleeping. I know that is not how people live in America or even in Japan today, but that is what I am accustomed to. I would not know what to choose or even how to tell what things should cost. You would be hampered by my ignorant presence. I am very sorry," she communicated through the translator, "but I would much rather stay here. Besides, Kemp is capricious and might return at any time, and you would not want the house to be unprotected if he did."

'You would be helpless in that case,' I reasoned with her, 'since he is so much larger than you are, and you can't even call the police or get help from a neighbor.'

"I would not be helpless," she countered. "He would not see me unless I wanted him to, and I can seal and hold any door or window fast against an intruder. Even if he had a key or a pry bar, he would find the door as solid as part of the uninterrupted wall. That is how I held my chest shut, and I can extend this ability to an entire dwelling when I am not weak with hunger. Truly, Jun-san, I do not want to go out. Someday perhaps I will be ready to see the city and go amongst people, but today I am very much afraid. Please forgive me my womanish weakness and foolishness." She looked afraid, that was true.

'I would be with you all the time,' I tried, 'and you would soon see there was nothing to be afraid of.' Except that this was Gotham City, and there was always something to be afraid of.

"But without your wondrous book to translate for you, it would be very difficult for you to talk to me," she reasoned right back. That was true, and handing the translator back and forth would get old fast. What we really needed was two of them. "When I understand English well enough to understand you, then I will go. In the meantime, I promise I will use the translator to study English while you are out."

She looked so unhappy that I relented. 'Very well, I will go alone. Tonight would you like to see a Shakespeare play adapted into a Japanese film by the same man who made The Seven Samurai? It is a very powerful tragedy about an old king who wants to abdicate the responsibility of ruling to his children but still keep the prestige.' She agreed enthusiastically with that idea, and I made a mental note to check Ran out of the library. Going back and forth between Japanese films and English language classics would keep us occupied of an evening for many nights to come.

I left the house, and as I crossed the campus, an evil notion crept into my brain. It was not solely Scarecrow's idea; Dr. Crane was just as much to blame. I decided to give in to what they wanted, which was to find out whether or not I would be at Gotham University for another year. Of course, doing so would violate several state and federal laws, not to mention the University rules, but I judged the risk of getting caught was low enough to warrant a bit of law-breaking.

With that in mind, I changed course and headed for the Gernsbach Science Center. I had every right to be in the building, even though it was Spring Break, and ostensibly I had a reason to be there. I was retrieving something from my desk—Bruce Wayne's passport. I would simply make an unauthorized visit to Dr. Eagleton's office by way of the women's restroom on that floor. That requires some little explanation. There was a connecting door from the Psychology Head's office to the women's restroom, not because the Psych Head was a woman, or for any perverse reason but because of a half-assed renovation to the building thirty years or so before. One can learn a great deal by listening to the ramblings of an old janitor as he goes about his work.

When the Center was built, the general and highly sexist assumption was that few, if any, women would be studying science, so the architect put only one women's room in the entire building, a two stall affair tucked in behind a staircase on the fourth floor. Times changed, and in the seventies, the National Organization of Women pointed out that a single rest room was pathetically inadequate and completely unacceptable and against the Building Code besides. In order to achieve, um, potty parity, the faculty lounges on each floor, each of which had a men's room attached, were converted instead into break rooms. After altering the bathrooms, removing the urinals and so forth, they changed the sign on the door and declared everything was now even.

One change they did not make was to cover over the door which had led from the Department Head's office directly into the restroom from the other side. Those remained on account of budgetary reasons, but they were kept locked. In other words, if one had the key to that door, one could get into the Head's office through the women's room.

It is not difficult to get a master key for almost any lock, and easier still if the locks have been around for a long time and one knows an old janitor with a habit of rambling on and also of leaving items like keyrings lying around.

Of course, breaking in through the women's room when there was a good chance of someone walking in on me would be unwise. Women's rooms are still held to be taboo; women may use a men's room in a pinch, with extreme distaste and a reluctance to touch anything, but a man in the women's room is sure to be held a pervert. Such is our cultural conditioning… Therefore Spring Break was the best and only chance I had to try this.

When empty, even a very familiar building takes on a sinister aspect. When one hears one's footsteps echoing back at one from the corners of every hallway, when one's breath is amplified a thousandfold in one's ears, it's easy to imagine that the footsteps and the breath might belong to someone or something else entirely, that if one stops suddenly and holds one's breath, then the someone else will take another betraying step before they catch on... The frission of fear can be almost pleasant. Such it was as I walked the vacant halls of the Center. I am here on legitimate business, I told myself. It's not a lie if one believes it. First I got the passport from my desk, then I stopped by the lab for latex gloves, putting a second pair on over the first. Thin latex is not a guarantee against leaving fingerprints, particularly if there is excess powder on the outside, or if one touches one's face; the whorls can leave imprints right through the glove, but a second layer should ensure I left no trace behind. Just to be sure, I wiped the gloves.

Still no one jumped out to ask what I was doing there; not all the functions of an academic institution ceased over a break, but the administrative offices were far away from where I was. I went into the break room--still doing nothing untoward; why should I not visit the break room? Then I took a deep breath and pushed open the women's room door. Some light filtered in through the pebbled glass windows, enough to see by. I took out the keys and tried to turn the lock.

It would not turn. It was the right key; I could feel the tumblers grinding against each other, wanting to turn. Well, if they hadn't moved in thirty years, perhaps they needed a little lubricant. In lieu of oil, a squirt of liquid hand soap would have to suffice--and suffice it did. The lock groaned as it submitted, and the hinges squealed like rabbits screaming. The gritty dust on the door jamb was almost fossilized, and I took care not to disturb it as I went in. Yes, this was Dr. Eagleton's office, empty and dark. I did not turn on any light, but went straight to the computer.

I am reasonably computer literate, but not so proficient as to claim to be an expert and I was certainly no hacker. I did not need to be, because I had seen Dr. Eagleton lift his keyboard to consult a list of his usernames and passwords. He predated the personal computer by several decades, and he was of an age where he needed to augement his memory with notes. Computers were still relatively new to him, the Internet, a momentary fad, and since the system required that users come up with a new password every quarter, by the time he memorized one he had to change it again. Three months was no more than a hiccup in his lifespan.

Information technology experts may put as many layers of security and firewalls and protections on a system as they like, but it's a lot like putting expensive alarms on a car but then walking away from it, leaving it unlocked with the keys in the ignition if the user puts a post it note with every relevant detail right there where anyone can find it. I booted up and signed on. Shortly after that, I was scrolling through his e-mail. There was a tantalizing message from the Assistant Dean among his new e-mails, but I knew better than to open a virginal message. I wanted to leave as little trace of my visit as possible. However, the header did say **Re: Next Year's Contracts**. It was a reply to an earlier message, so I checked his Sent Mail folder. There it was; the originating message.

_Dear Ben:,_ the e-mail began (the Assistant Dean's name was Benicia Pounder) _I know I've been dragging my feet over telling you who I want to keep and who I want to scrap. Frankly, none of them is entirely what they should be and none of them is what I would call an asset to the university. I would just as soon jettison the lot and start over, if only going through the process of getting replacements wasn't such a damn nuisance._

_To begin with the clearest cut: Melanie Mosser. To begin with, her absences are enough to damn her, but in addition to which, she is too hesitant and soft-spoken as a lecturer and does not provide enough direction as a lab instructor. The only difficulty I see in not renewing her contract is that she might claim she was let go because she is female, so we must be ready either to replace her with another female or fire at least one of the others to prove our lack of bias._

_Next, Greg Soucy. He's unpunctual, annoying, and while popular with the students, his lectures tend to be flippant and his labs disorganized. There is nothing wrong with injecting a little humor into one's instruction, but this is not a comedy club where he can coast from one one-liner to another. He is all style and no substance._

_Finally, there is Jonathan Crane. While the best of the three as a teacher, he is not a team player and is severely lacking in social skills, if not in manners--a cold fish from start to finish. He does everything by the book; he might as well be an android for all the personality he shows. I know this is as good as saying I don't want to keep him simply because I do not like him, but there is something off about him. I should not be surprised if in his high school yearbook he is listed as **'Most Likely to Bring a Gun To Class'**._

_I know that time is running out, and I promise I shall make a definite decision by the time we return from spring break._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Eagleton._

So there it was: Eagleton did not like me, and for the same reason no one had ever liked me--there was something lacking in me, something I could not fix, something I could not even identify. A rage rose in me, stinging heat suffusing my face. He would be sorry for those words. I would make him sorry for those words, one way or another. What I would do I did not yet know, but it would be humiliating. Eagleton could count on that.

In the meantime, I wiped his hard drive. A minor and petty revenge, but it mollified me a trifle.

A/N: Next chapter, Kemp pays a visit to the house (again) while Jonny is out shopping, and Suzume learns a few things of great interest. Naomi's ghost will be involved.


	50. Phonophobia:The Fear of Voices or Sounds

Sacrificed: My sister gave me

her voice. So now

it is my honor to speak for her.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

I set myself a goal for the day: that when Jun-san returned I would greet him in English and tell him how glad I was he was home without simply parroting the phrases. I was determined to understand what I was saying, if not his reply and to that end I applied myself. However, English seemed to me to be a very poorly organized language. One should be able to determine plurals from the context without changing the words according to treacherously inconsistent rules. Why should the plural of 'cat' be 'cats' while the plural of 'fox' was 'foxes'? Once I had learned that the rule to pluralizing a word which ends in 'x' was to add 'es' then along came 'ox', the plural of which was 'oxen'. 'Goose' became 'geese' according to another rule, and once I had accepted that all plurals are different from the singular, I tripped over 'sheep', which serves whether there was only one or a whole flock. Why have rules if there are more exceptions than adherences?

I feared the only easy way to learn a language was to start in the cradle. It was a great pity that my powers as a kami did not include universal understanding. I could have used it.

Yet I persisted. I promised Jun-san I would begin seriously studying English while he was out, but even if I had not done so, I would still have given my whole attention to it. What other choice did I have? Anywhere I went in the world I would be a foreigner, and nowhere more so than in Japan, for it was not my Japan and had not been for centuries. Here in Gotham City, people would make allowances for my differences because, after all, I had not been born here. In Tokyo everyone would know I was a stranger--or at any rate, they would think that I was very strange... This house was so quiet when Jun-san wasn't there. I had never, in my former life, been alone, not physically alone. Emotionally alone, very much so, especially on Kokomun-to, but even when I was confined to my futon there was always a servant within vocal range. Jun-san's house was set up so there was little or no need for a servant in terms of labor.

Yet a servant is not merely a machine for washing dishes and getting clothing clean and dry. A servant is a person, someone to talk to. I had not realized until now how isolated I was in this house. Of course, unless by some miraculous chance a servant could be found who spoke Japanese, I would not be able to talk to her, and I did not know if Jun-san's means would extend to hiring a servant.

But if not a servant, then what company could I find here? I could not befriend the neighbors for lack of a common language. Best of all would be a baby, a baby who would fuss and coo and wail and babble--and someday learn to talk, if it lived. Yet even if that were possible, a baby would be many months in coming.

A pet, perhaps? Jun-san had brought home those goldfish. While beautiful to look at, they did nothing to break the silence. I had seen people walking their dogs up and down the street, and a cat sunning itself in a neighbor's window, but even a little bird in a cage, a bird that would flutter and chirp as I studied or cooked, would brighten the long days while he was gone.

A cup of tea would make my mental exertions more bearable. I got up, went to the kitchen—and stopped, for someone was knocking on the front door. I melted into the air, soundlessly went to see who it was, and I was not surprised to see Kemp. Had I not predicted as much? Near him, Naomi-san's ghost hovered, a grim and silent shade, helpless in her rage, awaiting a time that might be many years in the future.

He knocked and called greetings in both Japanese and English. Of course I did not answer him. He tried again, but when he got no reply after his second attempt, he left the porch and went around the side of the house to the kitchen door. Issuing through the cracks, I followed him, as unseen and unpercieved as Naomi-san. He peered in each window he passed--it was a shame that in this form I had no more substance than air, for I would have liked to bounce a pebble off his ear, to teach him what came of peeping in people's windows. At the back door he knocked and called again. Eventually he gave up, and I thought he would leave, but I was wrong. He fetched a bag he had left behind a bush, and returned to crouch on the garden path beside the bench where I had brought him refreshment the day before.

The first item he removed from the bag was a blanket, which he folded into a kneeling pad. The next was a soul tablet with my name on it, my full name, except that he had spelled my milk-name wrong. My godparents saw fit to burden me with 'Lovely Child of a Hundred Spiritual Perfections', but he had written the kanji for 'Ghost Child'. Admittedly they are very similar in sound, 'Yureiko' and 'Yū-reiko', and perhaps a person who was not Japanese born would not know the difference, but--when I thought about it, it was actually quite appropriate.

After that he brought out a small incense holder and a stick of incense, lighting it with some odd device before putting it in place. A dish of tangerines followed, and then a plate upon which he arranged some moon-cakes, the kind that are filled with sweet red-bean paste. Now I knew what he was doing. He was making a spirit offering to my soul, which I found disturbing, considering that he was obsessed with me. Next he brought forth a small flask of sake and a jade vessel which looked to me like a water container from someone's writing set. Moreover, I suspected I knew whose writing set it was--my honored ancestor, the authoress Lady Shikibu Murasaki. However did it come into his possession? I burned to know the answer.

He filled the container with sake and placed that before my soul tablet as well. Putting his palms together in an attitude of prayer, he spoke.

"Suzume Murasaki, most exalted and noble lady, this wretch implores you to hear the entreaties of one who has spent his life in adoring you. In the mythology of the Greeks, the god of love shoots divine arrows into the hearts of the unsuspecting, causing them to fall in love with one another. Your embroidery needle must have been made of that same metal, for when I read the words you sewed into that jacket which you gave the scholar Junaemon, they pierced me, transfixed and transfigured me. Since then I have sought you everywhere, and found only echoes and traces of you, in the autumn leaves of Kyoto's temples, in the brocade of an obi, the curve of a tea-scoop. Desperate as I was, I even thought I had met with your reincarnation, but Naomi Miyabe was no more you than the reflection of the moon in a pond is the heavenly orb above."

Tears spilled out of his eyes to course down his face. "Now, though, I sense your presence. You are here, near me, within that house, within your dowry chest. I plead with you to come forth, to come to me. If you must haunt this earth, I beg you to haunt me. Whatever form you take, whether you be violent or calm, I welcome you. Abide with me in this life, and bring me the joy I can find in no other presence."

I was revolted, even nauseated by this obscene worship he was vomiting forth in words, but--it was sincerely felt. I could not, would not, would never requite him, yet I was moved almost to pity him.

Then Naomi, who I had momentarily forgotten, put her lips to my ear--I _felt_ her--and said, _'Elder sister, before you pity him, please hear me---!' _

She melted into me, and she/I/we remembered...

How happy I had been only a few weeks ago, because I was attending college at Oxbridge in England, _England_, the home of Shakespeare and Thomas Hardy, Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte and Arthur Conan Doyle. Fish had fins, birds had wings, and human beings had obsessions. All through the lonely years of growing up, the only girl in high school to be cursed with plantar warts, adenoids _and_ ineradicable dandruff, secretly I had been Irene Adler, Elizabeth Bennett, Jane Eyre. Persuading my family to allow me to come here had been difficult, but now my glorious, hard won freedom was no longer bright with autumn colors, but changed into something like the dead, dull brown leaves torn from the oaks by the winds which bore a hint of winter's blighting breath. I had no freedom, for a smiling jailor dogged my every step. Kemp, who had seemed a fatherly friend in those first days of homesickness, when I knew no one, when I was just 'that Jap girl', who spoke such perfect Japanese, and was so understanding--

memories

memories of crossing the campus and rounding a corner only to bump into him, of going to a movie with friends, only to see his face in the flickering light several rows behind wherever I went, there he was I could not sleep for fear I would open my eyes and he would be there Icould not eat because he was somewhere nearby watching every bite I put in my mouth and I did not know what he wanted except I thought of ancient fertility rites where a priest flayed a young woman and then put on her skin

no help

no help anywhere

then confronting him _whatever you want of me you can have only leave me alone_

_I want to show you my collection Come to dinner we'll talk about art and antiques_

_that's all you want?_

_that's all I want_

_And you'll leave me alone then?_

_you'll never see me again_

The meal was disgusting, too heavy and rich, and I knew I would be sick later. He showed me some small art objects, mostly from the Edo period. _Do you recognize any of these things?_

_that's a tea scoop, that's an obi, and that's a water container_

_no I mean do you remember having seen one of these exact pieces before?_

_No_

_Have another serving of rabbit._

Then stumbling to the toilet to splash water on my face, sitting down on the edge of the tub feeling my consciousness slip away.

Later.

white flash of light, soft pop. A flash bulb.

_someone's taking pictures?_

Flash

Trying to move. Stiff heavy clothing. A kimono?

_but I was wearing a sweater and a skirt what am I doing in a kimono? It's not mine I've never seen it before_.

flash

Trying to talk trying to protest and Kemp puts down the camera, putting a glass full of something icy cold and sweet to my lips

_no I don't want a milkshake no thank you_

Unconciousness again.

Later still: looking down on Kemp from the ceiling _is this my bedroom what's he doing here who's that on my bed?_

_Oh._

_Oh. It's me_

_I'm dead_

Suddenly I was once again Suzume on the garden path behind Jun-san's house. There was a much older Kemp praying to me, and beside me hovered Naomi-san's ghost.

_That was what he did to me. Elder sister, you are strong and I am weak. Help me. I have given you the only gift I can--in return, deliver him to me so I can rest_. Her shade faded and dimmed, as though she were exhausted by our communication.

But what gift had she given me? Her memories?

I could not stand the sight of Kemp any longer. He defiled the bright day with his presence, polluted the garden with his foulness. I leaned over and hissed in his ear. 'I know what you did!' Although I was only air, air can make noises.

He started and looked around, wild eyed. He could see no one. "Su-Suzume? Beloved?"

'Get out. Get away from here. What do you imagine you are? Murdering, decayed, unclean--Do not dare to say my name again!'

"Suzume?" he asked, faltering and falling as he tried to stand.

**"I told you not to say my name!" **I mustered the greatest shout I could. Scrabbling to his feet, he gathered up that perverted spirit offering of his, shoving it back into the bag haphazardly before hastening away. I went back indoors, not bothering to look behind.

In the living room I stopped, because I could not believe what I saw--.

Jun-san's books.

I could read the words on their spines. I was looking at English and it made perfect sense to me. Applied Chemistry. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. The Collected Works of William Shakespeare---. I took down the massive book of plays and turned to Romeo and Juliet. Reading aloud, I said, (the words sounding strange in my ears) "'Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona where we lay our scene--." I could read English, I could speak it, I could understand it! _This_ was Naomi-san's gift to me!

Now I really couldn't wait until Jun-san got home. He was going to be _so_ surprised...

* * *

A/N: So, is it a cop-out or does it work? I apologize to those I haven't replied to at this time and especially to Beowulfwulf and Lauralot whose chapters I haven't reviewed (but I have read) Right now my surge protector is sizzling and I'm sure it's not supposed to do that so I am going off line until I can get another tomorrow. Took a few liberties with Suzume's milk name. See you all tomorrow unless my place burns down.

**Update with an explanation**: I should really have explained what a milk name was, but I was distracted by the crackling sound coming from my surge protector. (I've replaced it and the new one isn't making a sound so it's all okay now.) Brace yourself, because it takes some explaining:

The infant mortality rate in Edo Japan was very high. Something like two or three out of every ten babies born did not live out their first year, and it wasn't much better after that until a child was five or so. You may have noticed that Suzume, when she's thinking about having a baby, adds '**if it lived**.' A lot of babies didn't. That was reality.

If they lived long enough to be weaned off breast-feeding, (they breast-fed much longer than we do, since they didn't have infant formula and bottles to fall back on) the chances were pretty good that they would live to grow up. So the first name a child was given was their milk name.

So why did they change the name after that?, you may be wondering. Names were held to be extremely important, especially in the upper classes. They reflected who the family was, and where that person stood in the birth order, and they incorporated part of the grandfather's name--it was a complicated formula they used to come up with a name.

Rather than give a frail newborn baby son the name that meant he was the firstborn and heir, only to have him die three weeks later, they would wait until they were pretty sure he would live. That was why they had milk names, and why they changed them later.

Some people changed names several times through their lives for various reasons. A samurai might change his after a famous victory in battle, to reflect where it took place or what he did. Artists would change it as their styles developed and matured. The artist we know as Hokusai (you're probably familiar with his picture 'The Great Wave'), toward the end of his life, called himself 'The Old Man Who's Insane About Painting' Hokusai means 'Artist of the North Star', an earlier name he went by.

Then people did have nicknames and names that only friends and family used. So there you have it.


	51. Verbophobia: The Fear of Words

Tangerines in winter—

like holding the sun

in my hand.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane

* * *

I was not in any mood to go furniture shopping as I left the Gernsbach Center, but as I crossed the green to the library, my ire fuming, the part of me that was closest to 'me', the part which was neither Dr. Crane nor the Scarecrow, asked, _but what about Lupoff and Mitsuoko Harris? They seemed to like you well enough. _That gave me pause. Suzume was so otherworldly that she occupied a category all her own, but Saxton Lupoff and Ms. Harris were firmly of this world, and both of them seemed to like me—at least a little. One _could_ argue that their friendliness was all part of doing business, but both of them had gone to some trouble on my account beyond what the motivation of profit could explain. What made them so different from everyone else? I mounted the library steps and went in.

Intelligence, for one thing. I got the sense that they and I were intellectual equals. Their knowledge of, and passion for, what they did was there in every statement. They were good at listening. I respected them—ah, that might be part of it. If I were being honest, I did not respect Eagleton and perhaps I did not do a good enough job of hiding it. I would have to think about this...

Finding Ran on the DVD rack, I checked it out and headed off campus to buy some furniture. My first idea had been to find used but still good pieces at a secondhand store, but I had not taken this into consideration: that in the area around the campus, people used their furniture until there was no useful life in it any more. Unsuccessfully, I went to two places and found nothing better than what I already owned, which was curb salvage.

That was how I wound up at Dock Five International, a moderately priced chain which offered rather stylish imports, and more importantly, they had them in stock. Going through, I spent about forty-five minutes choosing and another forty-five minutes waiting for stock people to get my items. As the store's truck was already out making deliveries, I went three blocks and rented a truck of my own for the day, and before long I was pulling up in front of the house.

Suzume met me at the door, and she was _radiant_. I had never seen her look so happy and excited before, and Suzume, when radiant, was at her most beautiful. "Good afternoon, Jun-san. I am very glad you are—_you have_ returned home." I will not attempt to reproduce her accent in dialog because it could sound as though I were making fun of her, which is far from my intent. I will only say her pronunciation was a little odd, her 'L's sounding like 'r's and her 'v's sounding like something between a 'b' and an 'f'.

However, it was perfectly intelligible English and I was extremely surprised. She had even corrected herself in a minor mistake. "You _did_ study hard today!" I exclaimed. Mind you, I thought she had only memorized certain phrases from the translator and was reciting them, knowing but not truly understanding what she said.

"Not as hard as my progress might lead you to believe," she replied. "because no one could learn as much as I have in one day. Miyabe Naomi-san was very—fluent? Yes, _fluent_ in English and she made me a gift of her knowledge. Not just of English, but of other things. I know that that—," she pointed to the instrument on the table by the stairs, "is a telephone, and that it allows people to talk to each other from anywhere in the world, and that vehicle you drove here is a lorry, only since this is America, it's called a truck, and I can read English, too. I sat and read a lot of Romeo and Juliet, and some other things as well, like parts of the newspaper. Best of all, I can now speak to you properly and help you in achieving Naomi-san's revenge against Kemp and—."

"You really are speaking English!" I jerked back in astonishment.

"Yes, yes, I am. Naomi-san was studying English Literature, _in_ English, and in England, so she was greatly proficient. Is it not wonderful? There are still many things of which I have no knowledge, of course, but now at least I have the basis of understanding, and--."

"One moment! This is amazing and wonderful, and I want to hear everything you have to say, but..." I sought about for a way to end the sentence, as the situation was a trifle overwhelming, "first things first. Try to sort your thoughts into order. How did Naomi make you a gift of her knowledge?"

She calmed down a little, "Yes, of course you are right. I am sorry. Kemp returned here. First he tried to get in, knocking on the door and calling 'Hello', but I did not let him. He did not know that I was there. I followed him invisibly to the garden, where he—You must come to the kitchen so I can explain better."

"All right," I followed her to the counter, where she had several items laid out on a sheet of paper. There was a broken and partly burned stick of incense, a tangerine, a small cake, smashed and covered in dirt, with a red pasty filling, and a small container made of either white glass or white stone, carved like a hollow section of bamboo. "What's all this?"

"This is what remains of a spirit offering Kemp made to me. He took the rest away with him, but he was so frightened that it made him clumsy."

"What is a spirit offering?" I asked.

"It is like...putting flowers on someone's grave as a remembrance. That is what you do here in America, is it not?"

"Some people do," I agreed. "You say he made it to you? Murasaki O-Suzume-sama, that is, not Shoko Kuwano?"

"Yes. He made it to my true name. Oh, Jun-san, the things he said—he worships me as a goddess, but his devotion made me feel—like the last person to take a bath. Here there is endless clean hot water, so you don't know what I mean. Everyone uses the same tub of water in a Japanese household, so the water starts out hot and clean and ends up cold and dirty even though they scrub and rinse before they get in. The last person sometimes feels dirtier afterward than when they started. That was how I felt, cold and scummy. But I am not staying with the thread of the tale, am I? As little as I liked what he said of me—I would not have liked it even if he were young and handsome like you and not a blotched pile of dog's vomit—his words were true and sincerely felt. I nearly felt pity for him, and that was when Naomi-san's spirit communed with mine. I saw what she saw, I knew what she knew. He pursued her without mercy through the last months of her life."

Suzume went on to describe those months, her face growing somber. The account was close to that which Ms. Harris had speculated, with one deviation: "He undressed her and dressed her again, " Suzume said, tears in her voice, "as if she were an Empress doll on the Girls' Festival Day. When he had done that, he took pictures of her. And I think—I think that she was not—was not completely clothed, or else that her garments were disarranged to reveal her. She woke up for a moment, and then he forced her to drink a milkshake with more drugs in it. Her next memory is of looking down on him and seeing her own dead body.

"He is loathsome and vile. If this were the Japan that I lived in, I would know what should be done, but I am sure you will tell me it is not legal or proper here."

"What would one do in a case like this?" I was curious.

"We should kill him and cut his head off, wash it and pack it in salt or ice, then travel to Naomi-san's grave and place it there. It would not be difficult; I have my naginata here and my daggers. I am quite practiced in their use. I trained first in my father's house, and then among the ladies of the Inner Household."

"Ah. No, you're right, that would be neither legal nor proper. Nor possible. Customs would object to our transporting a severed human head, no matter how it was packed." My mind was racing, and I picked up the small stone container. The scent of something alcoholic clung to it. Before I could ask about it, Suzume anticipated me.

"That is another crime, this time against my family. I know that piece; it was the water container—."

"—from your ancestor Shikibu Murasaki's writing set."

"Yes!" She was astonished that I should know it.

"Your family donated it to the Museum of The Tale of Genji," I told her, not knowing if that was the exact truth. It was close enough. "Do you know what a museum is?"

"Yes, now I do. It is an institution where objects of artistic, historical, or scientific importance and value are kept, studied, and put on display for the benefit of all." she said, proudly.

"He has stolen small items from museums all over the world. Those pieces must be recovered." I turned the water container over in my fingers. "He brought this with him...despite the fact that he meant to acquire your dowry chest. As what? A trophy? No..."

"He said he had sought me out but found only traces of me in materiel things." Suzume offered.

"So these are mementos of a love affair that never was. Or else—," I thought of the blank books I had bought for her, the pleasure I anticipated in seeing her pleasure at receiving them, of a few things I had purchased that day not because they were necessary, but because she might like them. A large mirror with a carved and painted frame, for example. " they're presents, love-gifts. He may have brought other stolen items with him. And I'm sure he brought those photographs."

"The ones he took of Naomi-san? How do you know?" Suzume sounded appalled.

"I'm not only a teacher, I am a doctor, and a doctor of psychology at that. I know how people think." And psychopathology had always been more interesting to me than studying the minds of purely ordinary people and their problems.

"Psychology," Suzume repeated. "The study of the mind."

"The photos excite him. He may revere you, but he degraded her. A woman who is accessible to him, willing or not, is inferior to the untouchable ideal, and therefore he can do as he pleases with her. She can be the object of his baser fantasies, from which you are excluded. Those photographs are evidence. He may be tried for her murder after all. You said he ran off because he was afraid. Why was he afraid?" Fear is fascinating, in all its manifestations. How many of them might I visit upon Kemp. The plan I began the night before was growing ever clearer and more detailed in my mind.

"I spoke to him, to upbraid him for what he had done. He was not expecting it, although he was importuning me to haunt him in whatever form I chose."

"So he believes in ghosts. He believes in your ghost, especially. Suzume, it is important that the stolen pieces be recovered and returned to the museums he took them from, and important that the photos and whatever other evidence he has of Naomi Miyabe's murder be found, whether before or after he dies. Preferably before, as then I can earn your papers from Interpol, and so he can suffer the knowledge that he has lost all--his reputation, his job, and all that goes with it--and that he has forever made himself hateful to the one thing he loved in this world--_you_. Wouldn't that be a better revenge?"

"I—I had not given a thought to it."

"And when he dies--and he will die--it should look like suicide. Or _be_ suicide, which is tidier. I think I can see a way to bring it about—with your cooperation. In fact, you are vital to it."

" I will do whatever I can to help Naomi-san find peace. What are we going to do?" Suzume asked.

"To begin with, there's a truckload of furniture out there, all of which needs to be brought in and some of which has to be assembled. That's a start. The house should be set up properly before anything else happens..."

* * *

A/N: Well, my house did not burn down, and I got a new surge protector. I also added an explanation of milk-names at the end of the last chapter. Plus, if you have any idea about going to see that new movie Paranormal Activity, I can tell you this: DON'T BOTHER! It's an hour and a half long and consists of over an hour of intense boredom punctuated by fifteen minutes worth of scares which are not very scary or original. I'm very discerning when it comes to scary movies.


	52. Catoptrophobia: The Fear of Mirrors

Reality as entertainment:

strange concept.

Like the tree in the forest

falling with no one to hear it,

if it doesn't happen on camera

then it never happened at all.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As I brought in the last box, Suzu—no, _Shoko_, I _had_ to think of her as Shoko, or I might slip up and call her by her real name while Kemp was here—Shoko was reading over the receipt. "Two Hermitage armchairs, brown leather, five hundred ninety eight dollars together, one Hermitage sofa, brown leather, four hundred ninety-nine dollars, one Napa coffee table, one hundred forty-nine dollars, one Kala Medallion tufted wool rug, six feet by nine, two hundred ninety-nine dollars, one Erie computer desk—Which is the computer desk, Jun-san—J-on-a-tan?" She was trying her best to get the pronunciation of my name right.

"That box over there," I pointed at it. I had a desk, true, but it was also true that I had to prop one leg of it up with a copy of Condensed Latin Grammar, so I decided to replace it while I was at it.

She nodded. "One Erie computer desk, two hundred thirty-nine dollars, one Samarqand wall mirror, two hundred ninety-nine dollars—How much rice will a dollar buy? That is the only way I know how to value money, by rice."

"Not much," I replied, cutting open the box with the kitchen table in it (Provencal dinette table, one hundred seventy-nine dollars, assembly required.), "One of your obans is worth about ninety thousand dollars."

"Oh? Then this is not so bad as I had imagined." She brightened. "Ten percent first time purchase discount with new credit account—What does that mean?"

"It means that I have a bet on with the credit company." I laid out the table pieces and ripped open the bag with the hardware and the instructions. "They're betting twenty-nine percent of the balance that I won't pay for all of this within one year, and I'm betting I will. I've never gambled like that before, and I don't intend to in the future. This sort of expenditure is the kind one only has to make once—although since I—_we_ might be moving again in a few months anyway, it hardly seems worth the bother. But wherever we wind up, we'll need furniture, so it's all one, anyhow." Putting the instructions aside, I picked up a screwdriver and two pieces of wood.

"Why might we be moving?" Shoko asked. "Would it go better if I held that piece in place for you?"

"Yes, it would," I said around a mouthful of screws, "thank you. I might not have a job here next academic year. The Head of Psychology doesn't like me and he plans on firing two out of three of us assistant professors. The irony is that I am the best teacher. I don't suppose you can think of a way to make him keep me?" She was the one with the people skills and the Machiavellian outlook, after all. Perhaps she would have some good advice for me.

"I might be able to, but I must know more."

I explained the situation in more detail while we completed the table.

"What you need is a patron," she said as we carried it out to the kitchen and put it in place, "someone of influence and power who will take an interest in your career either directly or indirectly. Do any of your students have important fathers?"

"At Gotham University? Hardly. Anyone whose father is that important wouldn't be going to school here."

"Oh. Are any of the other senior instructors inclined to be friendly toward you?"

"Professor Pigeon, maybe. He was my professor back when I started college—at a different college, though. He's too new here to have much sway."

"Then through your cooperation and work with Interpol you shall distinguish yourself as too valuable to be let go, at least for another year." Shoko decided as we went back and started on the coffee table. "In that time it would be possible to look around for a suitable patron. The missing Daimyo, Bruce Wayne, would be most suitable, but I know you do not want to discuss him. Are you sure that side is meant to be up?"

I looked at what I was doing. "No. Let me look at the instructions again…"

While we worked, I couldn't help but remember what she had said earlier. 'if he were young and handsome like you.' She hadn't said it as one usually pays a compliment or blurted it out, but in a matter-of-fact way while focusing on Kemp. 'Handsome like you.'—An opinion that had snuck out around the edges when she wasn't looking.

That raised certain possible problems to the forefront of my mind, and I carefully phrased a question before I said it. "Suzu—I mean, _Shoko_, what did people do, in your Japan, if there were enough children in the family already or if the time was not right to bring a child into the world—and there was reason to believe one might be coming?"

"What did people do—? There are medicines that will cleanse a womb, if I understand you right, and bring on a missed monthly flux, even two or more missed fluxes. Or there is riding over hard ground on a young horse. Breastfeeding one child often keeps another from beginning, or so I have been given to understand. It is for the father to decide. Is it not the same way here?"

"No, actually, it isn't. The mother--the woman's rights over her own body are held to be more important."

"But--excuse me, I don't question the truth of what you say, I ask only that I might understand--if a woman chooses to bear a child the man does not want, he is likely to cast her out, or beat her and in other ways do her injury. Even here, for in the paper I read about a driving shooting by a man who killed his woman because he did not want the child she carried, which was his."

"You mean a _drive-by_ shooting. I can't lie and say such things don't happen, but it is against the law. Men are not allowed to kill, beat or rape their wives. Those who do are punished. But it works the other way. If a woman finds herself--with child, and for whatever reason, she decides it is better not to have it, she doesn't have to ask permission or resort to dangerous methods. Better still, there's a medicine women can take, a little at a time, every day, which, ah, safely prevents the need to make such a decision." My face was as hot as the surface of the planet Mercury. "There are other ways as well, some of which a man can do."

"I have heard of those," Was it my imagination, or was she decidedly pinker than normal? If one went by the light/dark contrast, she was actually whiter than I. Her complexion was like polished ivory; my grandmother would fume in envy, having ruined her epidermis with sunbathing. (My great-grandmother had loved to point out she always told her daughter she would look old before her time.) "But men do not like to inconvenience themselves, or so I have been told."

"Um. Well, I don't know about that." I could not look her in the eyes for embarrassment. How much had she understood?

"I thank you for telling me about these things, though. Also, I have been thinking about this 'democracy' of which you spoke. My father was a great man, a councillor highly trusted by the Shogun, so trusted that he was allowed to take his family with him when he left Edo in the Shogun's service. That was a privilege no other Great Lord had--their wives and children had to live in the Palace compound, hostages in fact if not in name. How he earned this, I do not know. He never spoke of it. By this you can tell he was a man of exceptional worth and wisdom.

"By law, a man of samurai rank could kill a peasant with impunity--just to test a new sword, if he pleased. That was the Shogun's law, ever since the first of the Tokugawa shoguns implemented it. My father did not agree with that law. He said that a peasant ought to be valued by the number of koku of rice he grows in a year, as a samurai is ranked by the koku he recieves as a stipend. A peasant might then be held as valuable, or more so, than a low-ranked samurai, because of his value to society. He had to sit in judgement over a samurai who killed many peasants simply because he took joy in killing, and the greatest punishment he could hand down was to order that the samurai's clan pay a heavy fine and that the man himself should enter a monastery and never return to the world. This troubled my father a great deal, but his was a lone voice saying 'No' in a crowd shouting 'Yes'. If there were peasants allowed in the government, then they perhaps could speak for their people and be heard. So if that is what democracy is meant to do, then I understand it better. Can that medicine of which you spoke be easily procured?"

"Um--yes."

"I think that is a wise thing. Better to prevent than to regret forever after. Even an aborted child is a soul that must be honored and remembered."

In terms of understanding, I had just been one-upped.

Eventually:

"Are you ready?" I asked Shoko.

"Yes," she nodded. "Let us visit upon him some of that fear which Naomi-san knew in the last months of her life."

"That's not for tonight." I cautioned her, "Tonight is groundwork. Much of fear lies in the anticipation."

"I understand. And I will not stab him no matter how provoked I may become." She nodded again.

"Very good." I picked up the phone and dialed Kemp's hotel room.

He answered on the sixth ring. "Hello?" His voice sounded thick, as if with drink, or sleep, or tears.

"Professor Kemp? It's Crane. When do you want to come over and exact your pound of flesh for the day?" At this point, he still had to believe he held the upper hand, so I tinged my voice with bitterness.

"I—I don't know if—Might we perhaps meet somewhere else? Or—no, I will come over. Yet…"

"What's wrong with you?" I said peevishly. "Yesterday we couldn't get rid of you. Come or don't come, as you please. This is your obsession, not mine. Just don't think I'm going to call you when I get the dowry chest open. Good bye."

"No!" he protested abruptly. "I'll be over directly. You were going to show me the document from the man who put the chest into storage."

"Until I get the chest open, there won't be much else I can show you."

"Then I will see you inside of an hour," he promised.

We exchanged farewells, hung up, and I turned to Shoko. "He's on his way."

He did not come to the front door first, like any normal visitor. I saw him from the window over the sink. He was lurking around in the garden, looking, no doubt, for the water container he had so carelessly left behind in his fright. He cast a glance at the house, and there was something of trepidation in his eyes.

I relayed all this to Shoko. "Shall I fetch him in?" she asked.

"Please do. This is getting to be ridiculous."

"What is that thing he has under his arm?" She had to stand on tiptoe to see over my shoulder.

"It looks like a gift bag." He had a narrow red and gold parcel just visible in the crook of his left elbow as he bent over to look under the bench.

"This grows more tedious." She threw open the back door. "Kemp-sensei! Whatever are you doing out here? We were looking for you in the front."

"Oh—nothing. Only I thought I had lost a cufflink here yesterday."

"Would you like me to help you look?" she asked.

"No. I just recalled that I had it after I left here, so I must have lost it somewhere else."

"What a shame. Would you like to come in? I did not want you to see the inside of the house yesterday because it was embarrassing, but since then it has changed completely." Dimpling up at him with a mischievous smile, she drew him into the house.

I met them inside the back door. "We went furniture shopping this morning and Shoko wants to show the place off." My smile was for her, not him.

"You are our first guest," she prattled as she led the way into the living room. Already I could tell when she was putting on a thick veneer of sweetness.

"Really?" Kemp asked. "Then I'm doubly glad I brought this. It can serve as a housewarming gift." He handed her the gift bag.

She glanced at me, not sure of the etiquette. "Thank you very much. Shall I open it?"

"Please."

She undid the bow. "Sake!" she exclaimed, pulling a bottle out and reading the label. "Thank you. I have not tasted rice wine since I came to America. I will think of you when we pour this." And we did pour it later—down the sink. Not because we were afraid he had adulterated it, because the seal was intact, but because the manufacturer already had. It was loaded with monosodium glutamate and high fructose corn syrup, among other things, which meant it bore about the same resemblance to true sake as a 'wine cooler' did to a fine Beaujolais, or so I gathered.

"What a very handsome and well-appointed room," he commented, looking around. There I had to agree. For someone who had never given a thought in his life to furnishing a home and probably never would again, I thought I had done rather well. The sofa and chairs looked as though they had come from a library of the better sort, which made them look right at home among Stickley's wood panels and bookshelves. The rug was also brown, darker than the furniture, but with colorful round crests, nothing gaudy, just enough to break up the darkness. Over the fireplace was one of the two paneled screens from the chest, the one with spring and summer flowers, and the large mirror had been hung in the stairwell.

"Oh!" Shoko cried out as we passed the mirror. "How odd. For a split second there, I thought I saw a fourth person with us. Well, you have seen the greatest changes now. It is a shame we could not get large tatami mats for the floor, but J-Jon-a-tan did find miniature versions which will serve well as coasters. Besides, I know I can't make everyone take their shoes off when they come in, not here in America."

"Tatami mat flooring?" Kemp's eyes lit with condescending amusement. "How very quaint of you."

"I was brought up in a traditional house," she explained, "and if liking wood instead of plastic and tatami instead of carpets, makes me quaint, then I fear I must be quaint. You don't mind if I take care of a few things in the kitchen while you visit, do you? I will make tea, if you would like some."

"I would be delighted." Kemp and I sat on either side of the coffee table, he on the sofa and I on a chair. The webcam, hidden on a shelf among my books, was sending everything it saw to my laptop upstairs, and my little recorder was in my shirt pocket, picking up every word spoken. In the background, we could hear Shoko in the kitchen, opening cabinets and turning water on and off.

Taking a folder from the table drawer, I placed it in front of him. In it was a photocopy of the statement by the anonymous last owner of the chest; I wasn't about to trust Kemp with the original. While he started reading it eagerly, I asked, "By the way, how did you track the chest down?"

"Through shipping manifests and bills of sale to a madman rotting in a mental institution," he said. "And you?"

"Through a case file from a mental institution," I said, off-handedly. "as part of my studies in deviant psychology. I had no idea who the patient was, as all names were blacked out. The name 'Suzume Murasaki' leapt out at me. Interestingly enough, I don't believe the man was, as you put it, mad. Or at least he wasn't at first. He was just a man who couldn't interpret what he saw and heard in a rational way. He saw a monster. I believe what he saw was his subconsious mind trying to communicate a deeper truth to his conciousness. He assaulted and nearly killed his girlfriend with a baseball bat--because the monster he saw was _himself_."

"That's a very interesting theo--." Kemp began in an 'isn't that amusing' tone, but he gasped halfway through the word theory because Shoko had just come out of the kitchen, and for a moment, just for a moment, she looked like a suffocation victim with a plastic bag over her head. Exactly like Naomi Miyabe.

* * *

A/N: Guess what? I'm cat-sitting for a friend for two weeks. The lucky bastard is going to Italy on vacation, and I'm down on my hands and knees trying to coax a scared cat out from behind a water heater. I'll manage it eventually; I'm an expert at this now. I better get a postcard, though!


	53. Hauntophobia:The Fear of Haunted Houses

When I comb my hair

I see my mother in my face.

While I can see myself

It is as though she is merely

In another room, not here,

But near.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

It was Jun-san who thought I would be able to change my appearance. "Since you can reattach a severed finger, dissolve into water, and disappear, perhaps you can alter your features as well." He was right, although it took no little effort to do so and I could maintain it for but a few moments. (When he was not looking, I tried to make my breasts larger, but although I could make them full and round, I could not make them stay that way. And they ached so!) Then we practiced where I should stand so as not to be seen by the camera, what I should say, and so forth.

The effect on Kemp-sensei was worth it. His color was as of one suffering a grave illness, and he croaked like a frog, without words.

"What's wrong?" Jun-san asked, as I asked, "Is something the matter?"

"I—it, I mean, you—," he gasped, "I—no, I am fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?" I asked, advancing to the table and setting down the tea-tray. (This too was planned.) I had not been lying when I said I thought I saw a fourth person in the mirror, for the ghost of Naomi-san still trailed behind him as close as a shadow, although she was dim and wan compared to her previous appearance. Making me that gift of language must have drained her sorely.

Kemp-sensei turned red, bright red, because among the things on the tray was the jade water container which he had left behind in the garden, the one which belonged to my illustrious ancestor. A small iris from the garden served as an excuse for its presence, but it was there for other reasons. "We shall hammer him," Jun-san had said, "give him a taste of one sort of fear as an aperitif, then a large serving of another kind. He must not have time to recover."

"Where did you get that?" the corrupt professor demanded. His hand shot out to seize it, but Jun-san was faster.

"Now that is an _excellent_ question," Jun-san replied, "because we found it in the backyard, right about where you were searching for your—cufflink. Since it is a valuable piece of jade carved in a style which dates back to the Heian era or earlier, we were at a loss to explain how it could have gotten there. So I brought it inside, took a few photos of it, and ran an image search online looking for a match. Imagine how surprised we were to learn it was on Interpol's list of stolen works of art. To be more specific, it was stolen from the Museum of the Tale of Genji."

"Neither I nor Jona-tan have ever been there," I contributed. I still could not get his name quite right. "We talked it over and the only explanation which fit was that you had brought it there. Of course if you say you did not, then we will of course believe you. In that case you can have no objection should Jon-a-tan call Interpol to tell them it has been found."

"Then—you know what this is?" asked Kemp-sensei, nonsensically.

"We do now," Jun-san took over again, "It's the water container from a writing set which belonged to Lady Shikibu Murasaki, and a priceless cultural artifact."

"Really?" Kemp-sensei affected a nonchalant air. "I had no idea of its provenance or its antiquity. I bought it several years ago in Hong Kong for ten thousand pounds. I've no idea where the dealer acquired it, or how."

"Come now, Professor. That bird won't fly; it's pure turkey." Jun-san leaned forward. "Not when this piece belonged to Lady Murasaki, and you are so obsessed with_ another_ Lady Murasaki. Next you'll be saying you don't remember the dealer's name and that you've lost the reciept. Besides, if you did purchase it in all innocence, then you should call Interpol yourself and claim the reward."

I busied myself in putting the tea things on the table, with the exception of the water-container, which Jun-san still held. Watching the two men, I could see the faint sheen of sweat grease Kemp-sensei's face.

"So let us have no more talk of calling Immigration over a minor infarction of policy which is even now being corrected," concluded Jun-san, "not when your own sins are so much blacker. Let's instead discuss how you are going to persuade us _not_ to call Interpol."

"What do you want? You can keep the damned thing, if that's it!" Kemp exploded.

"Keep it? Why ever would I want to do that? I don't want the burden of accepting stolen goods on my conscience. I'll have to think about that for a moment...Why don't you go ahead and read that account from the last owner of the chest while I do?" Jun-san offered.

Kemp-sensei warily dropped his eyes to the page in front of him. Reaching out for the cup of tea nearest him on the tray, he stopped and looked over at me. "What part do you play in all of this?" he inquired.

"What part do I play? I do not play, Kemp-sensei. I am in deadly earnest, believe me." He gave me a state, which I parried with downcast eyes. He made a noise like, 'Harumph' and went back to reading.

"I'm most interested in the psychology behind your theft. You can't have started with a major cultural artifact—or stopped with it. These sorts of things only escalate with time. It's possible to keep up a certain level of good but not possible to keep up a certain level of—what for lack of a better word, I will call evil." Jun-san put the water container on the top of the bookshelf behind him, and laced his fingers together. "Let's see—this began when you found the jacket in the monastery you were helping renovate. I can't imagine that interns were simply allowed to keep whatever they found, so I'm assuming that was one of your first thefts, if not your very first. Am I right?"

Kemp scowled, but kept on reading.

"I see that I am. You found the jacket, and you kept it. The letter touched something in you, some need unmet by anything else in your life. It was as if Suzume Murasaki had written to you personally, directly. A soulmate—."

"If you can leave off the pleasure of dissecting my character for a moment," Kemp-sensei snapped, "there is something else I would like to discuss with you."

"Yes?"

"This account of the monster from the chest—you didn't find it...disturbing? It didn't play upon your imagination?"

"Should it have?" Jun-san asked. "You yourself said the writer was a madman rotting in a mental institution."

"--so I did. But knowing the tale of the ghost, and having read this account, have you fancied you heard or saw anything like what you've read? Have you not shivered at an inexplicable sound in the night?"

"You mean," Jun-san chose his words with a care which would have done justice to my father's sense of subtlety, "have I heard or seen anything spectral or monstrous since I brought the chest home, even if it was only in my imagination?"

"Yes."

"The only other presence in this house that I've seen or heard since I brought the chest home has been Shoko here." A masterful statement; every word was true yet all of it was misleading. I concealed my admiration as he asked me, "What about you? Has anything unknown come out of that chest that you know of?"

"Of course not!" I smiled.

Jun-san turned his attention back to Kemp-sensei. "There you have it. It seems to me, Professor Kemp, that you are trying to change the subject. What do you feel when you steal? Excitement, surely, but what else? Fear and apprehension? A sense of superiority, or entitlement? Of course it must make you feel closer to Suzume Murasaki, but what else? Are you sexually stimulated--?"

"Enough!" Kemp-sensei slammed the table with sufficient force to make the cups jump and clatter, and I leapt to wipe up the spilled drops before they could mark the wood. Naomi's murderer leaned away from me as though I harbored some disease. "The two of you seemed like such a nice young couple," he fumed while turning his glare from one of us to the other, "yet what venom is concealed underneath."

"I think that we are a nice young couple," I spoke up in our defence. "As knowledgable as you are about the land of my birth, you must be familiar with Noh drama. A skilled actor can convey every shade of human emotion from the heights of joy to the depths of woe in how they angle their heads in the light. The rigid masks they wear can express love, shame, grief, and rage--yet the wooden features never alter. We all wear masks, do we not, Kemp-sensei?"

"Exactly how did your fiancee die, Professor?" Jun-san snapped out before Kemp-sensei could reply.

He looked back and forth between us again, breathing hard and looking much older than he had before. "Ten thousand pounds, not dollars, for the chest and its contents, and another ten for the water container and your silence. You leave a bad taste in my mouth, and I had rather end this association now."

"The chest is not for sale at any price," Jun-san told him, "not to you, at any rate. I don't want your money or the water container. As I told you before, I have no desire to become the reciever of stolen goods. And why should I let you off the hook when you weren't about to let us off it? I'll tell you what, though. I'll give you my word I will not call Interpol--if you show me and tell me about what else you've stolen. As a psychological study, your case is a fascinating one--although personally I find you as distateful as you find us."

"No," Kemp said, "there is some trick in it. What of her word? What if she were to call in your stead?" (And in truth neither of us would call Interpol--they were to call us. A fine distinction. One should always listen carefully to what is said--and not said.)

"I would give my word not to call either," I said, "but indeed, you should be wary of us, as wary as we are of you. You see, it is a matter of public record that the only Japanese Naomi connected to your university to die during your time at Oxbridge, was Naomi Miyabe. Of an overdose of sleeping pills, the newspapers say. She was then less than half your age, and not, according to any account, your fiancee. Although her death was ruled a suicide, this news does not enkindle in us great feelings of confidence in you."

"Dear me," he said with sarcasm, "and can you tell me what I had for breakfast as well?" I could see his apprehension was eased; he did not regard either of us as any great threat to him.

"Gin-and-tonic, by the smell of you," riposted Jun-san, "and we would still let you see what is in the chest once it is open. I have no doubt we will get it open; someone succeeded once, or else how would that scroll have gotten into my hands, through my great-great-grandmother, in the first place?"

When Kemp-sensei left, it was with the jade water container, and with a false sense of security.

* * *

A/N: I didn't know cat-sitting would mean taking a couple of weeks off from writing, but I didn't have internet access while I was sitting Shadow, and he needed lots of attention, poor baby. He is now reunited with his poppa, and I am back. I plan to get up to date on my reading and reviewing next.

Two recommendations: First, although ill-timed, the movie Trick 'R Treat, which for some reason went straight to DVD. A horror movie with lots of tongue-in-cheek humor, it has several story lines which wind around and into each other, one of which has Anna Paquin in a Lil' Red Riding Hood costume, and another with Brian Cox, who played Samara's father in The Ring, as a paranoid old alcoholic threatened by something in his home. This film is a small gem--and it has the cutest little guy named Sam running around in a burlap scarecrow-clown costume with button eyes. Some language, some gore, violence and nudity.

Second: Ooku, a manga by Fumi Yoshinaga. It's an alternative history set in the Edo period. The premise is that three-quarters of the male population of Japan have died of a disease which leaves women untouched. All sorts of previously male positions and occupations are now held by women, up to and including that of Shogun. Because of the laws of supply and demand, only very wealthy women can afford to take husbands; those less well-off must essentially pay stud fees in order to have children, and it is young men who are used, abused and exploited by the sex trade--and who fill the Inner Household of the Shogun. Although this work does have an 'Explicit Content' warning on it, it is not what one might call one-handed reading material. There is no bad language, no explicit illustrations, and it relys on provocative ideas rather than provocative images. Fumi Yoshinaga is a woman, and she gifts her female Shogun with cool intelligence, a sense of humor, and a streak of practicality.

While hardly a new premise, what sets this work apart is the setting, which is historically accurate save for the obvious, and the literary sensibility Ms. Yoshinaga brings to it. I was reminded of The Handmaid's Tale and Children of Men when I read it. Only the first book is out so far in English, but the next is scheduled to be released in December.


	54. Habiliophobia:Fear of Getting Dressed

The firefly tickles

a path from palm to forefinger

before it rejoins the living constellations

above the grass.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

Baiting Kemp was exhilarating, a better rush than being drunk, far better than scoring 1590 on the SATs, better than practically anything... Which part of me was responsible for that? Dr. Crane came up with the questions, certainly, but it was Scarecrow who knew just how to jab him where it hurt, and Jun-san-Jonathan who knew just where to put the limits. So did it matter? I wanted more of this feeling, and soon.

"He is gone," Suzume/Shoko reported, looking out the window. I looked at her with great respect and affection. She had done magnificently. Who would have guessed that telling Kemp outright that he should not trust us would actually put him at ease? I told her so and mentioned a few other instances where I thought she had particularly shone. She colored up prettily and replied that whatever she had said, I had outdone, and what did I think would happen next?

"Tomorrow," I said, "we tell him we got the chest open. Also, we continue to work on him. I know what he will want. This is what you must do..." I explained.

"I can do that," she said when I had finished, "but you will have to help me. I cannot do it alone."

"How much help do you think you'll need?" I asked, slightly disturbed.

"You will not appreciate how much until the time comes." What I had suggested was that she put on one of her kimonos. Kemp had gone so far as to drug Naomi Miyabe in order to dress her in traditional garb, pose her, and photograph her. He would assuredly want to see someone wear the kimonos which had belonged to his idol, Lady Suzume herself.

About eighteen hours later, I was hovering around outside my bedroom door, waiting for my services to be called upon. "Jun-san--I mean, Jona-tan--."

"You can call me Jun-san if it's easier for you. I--rather like it."

"Oh. Thank you. Jun-sa, there is no need for you to wait behind a closed door if you do not wish to. While I am not ready to be seen in public, I am covered more modestly, I think, than by the clothing you got for me."

"Am I making you nervous?" I guessed. I was unsure about coming in; the difference between underwear and swimwear is minute in terms of detail but enormous in intent. Not that she was donning swimwear, but undress is undress whatever the culture.

"No, not all--or perhaps a little." I went in. She was sitting in front of the mirror, putting the finishing touches to her hair, which was now piled elaborately on top of her head, adding several inches to her stature--two or three, at least. I am not sure how to describe it, but anyone familiar with the woodcut prints of Utamaro or Hiroshige would recognize it at once. It looked very solid, an effect which I had no idea how she achieved.

Seeing my interest, she explained, "I used some of the white wax which you store in your cold-box. I hope that was all right."

"White wax in the refrigerator? Oh, you mean the vegetable shortening." She had done her hair with Crisco?

"It was the closest substance to what I am accustomed that I could find. Many of the things in my makeup kit have gone bad. The--shortening you said it was? melts more readily than hairdressing wax. I do not think it will last very long. Nor would I wish it to--a week between hairwashings is bad for the scalp, no matter what the fashion is."

"I would have to agree." I had never seen a woman ready herself like this before, not in person. Primp and check their lipstick in a compact, yes, but not this full preparation. It was--very intimate, really. She put a gilded lacquer comb into the top-knot of her hair before inserting one hair ornament into the front from one direction and another from the opposite direction into her hair at the back with an expression better suited to an assassin sheathing a pair of freshly sharpened daggers.

"Is that all?" I inquired as she picked up a thin make-up brush. "I'm sure I've seen prints of women whose heads looked like pincushions or frozen fireworks."

Her eyes opened very wide, startled, and she laughed her odd laugh. "Kyee-hee-hee! If you did, then you can be sure they were third-rate courtesans from a second-rate house in one of the pleasure districts, and their ornaments no more than cheap tinsel. No, unless she is a princess or an empress, a woman of rank will wear very few hair ornaments, and those will be of artistic merit and fine craftmanship. Except for the cascading flower ornaments young girls wear for festivals. With those it doesn't matter, because they're all in fun."

"I see." While she explained, she had outlined her eyes with liquid black before picking up a bigger brush and dipping it into a dish of light powder. Closing her eyes, she flicked it over her face. "What is that made of?"

"I ground up rice with some dried fish-scales in the mortar. The scales provide a pearly shimmer--there is no smell." Taking up a small pot of green powder, she applied it to her lips, and I saw alchemy at work--when it touched her lips, the powder turned red. "This is beni--it's made of, um--" she sought in her mind for the English, "of flowers, yes, of safflower blossoms."

"Interesting--I wonder what chemical properties they have which make this powder change in response to skin contact."

"That I do not know." She stood up and cast off the sheet she had been using as a make-up robe. Under it she wore some sort of thin white cotton slip over another garment. Turning around, she looked back at me over her shoulder. "This is most important. Can you tell me just where the collar falls on my neck? It must be three finger's width below the nape of the neck, neither higher nor lower."

"Three finger's width--That's so it doesn't become greasy from contact with your hair, right?" I laid my index, middle, and ring finger against her neck to compare, and she jumped. "Sorry--are my hands cold?"

"No, it is not that--I mean, your hands are not cold and it is not because of my hair. If it were higher than three fingers, I would look like an old woman, and if it were lower, it would be indecent. Is it correct?"

"Yes, I would say so."

"Thank you. Now there are the three garments which go over this. I have put the sashes and cords underneath each one. First is the silk nadajuban, which is the yellow robe. Next is the hiyoku, next to it, and then the irotomesode. Kimono just means 'a thing to wear'; each piece has its own name. The collars must layer one another so each shows, and it is most important that the left side of the robe always go over the right side. Right over left is reserved for laying out a corpse for its funeral." She was so solemn that I had to smile, she was so adorable.

"Is that the sort of thing Kemp is likely to know?" I asked.

"If he knows as much as he pretends to know, yes."

"Then I suggest that we deliberately wrap these right over left. If he is knowledgeable, he will find that subtlety disturbing."

Her brilliant smile told me she understood what I was getting at. "Then yes, by all means, let us disturb him. Right over left it shall be."

She was entirely right when she said she would need my help. In fact, a third party would have been very useful. It wasn't putting on the robes as it was tying the corresponding belts--and holding things in place while they were being tied. I asked why there were so many layers involved, and she replied that kimono as she wore them were actually much simpler than those of her illustrious ancestress' time, where twelve robes were considered necessary for a person of rank, each carefully color coordinated for the season and the occasion, the shades conveying special meanings. Heaven help the courtier who chose even a single wrong shade; it meant social suicide.

"So I consider myself fortunate to have lived when clothing was much simpler." she finished. "This is an ensemble suited to late spring in its colors and symbols, anticipating summer. It was my favorite, although I never had a chance to wear it, not on Kokomun-to. It is the second-most formal gown in a married woman's wardrobe."

The silk juban was a mellow pale gold, utterly plain and very lightweight. Over it went another robe, identical in cut but not in fabric. This was patterned in stylized clouds and shaded like a sunset, peach melting into raspberry and lavender, hints of the gold peeking through. Tying the cord and sashes for these were challenging but straightforward, but after she donned the irotomesode, things got complicated. The obi, a piece of brocade at least a foot wide and not less than twelve feet--yes, _twelve feet_--long, had an under-obi belt of its own, plus a sort of bustle pad to keep the bow in a three-dimensional state and a cord which was tied over top of that. And it had to be tied in the back.

When I asked why, after she had tied it perfectly in the front, the obi could not simply stay that way, she explained that it would send the wrong message. "Only a prostitute, the commonest sort of prostitute, one who must...service many men, day and night, ties her obi in the front, because she must take it off and put it back on many times. I cannot wear the knot in front. It is not possible."

"What if we were to slid the whole obi around until the bow's in the back?" We tried, but that proved impractical. The robes underneath were very carefully folded and draped in a particular way, and shifting the obi left them in a sorry state of disarray. She looked as though she had gotten dressed in the dark--or had her clothing thrown on her from a distance.

There was no help for it. I had to learn how to tie an obi in the back, and it was a feat of architectural engineering. Every culture I knew of has its sartorial code by which the woman whose affections are to be had for one with the price is known. In Renaissance Rome, it was yellow hair ribbons. In modern day Gotham, it was a micromini and Lucite heels, and in Edo Japan it was an obi which tied in the front. How did I manage? The happy thought that she would need my help to take it off again sustained me...

...and the nape of her neck, her soft, demure, ivory neck with that exposed area of her back. From my superior height, I could see down her back, the shadowed valley of her spine, and it seemed more intimate than casting a glance down a woman's low-cut blouse, or at the flash of inner thigh exposed by a miniskirt on a girl in motion. Then, too, at times while helping with the belts, I had to put my arms around her, close enough to feel her warmth, even through all those layers. I thought of undressing her later, and nearly embarrassed myself. Only the work at hand kept me focused.

Finally--and by finally I mean nearly two hours later--Suzume/Shoko was well and truly dressed. The effect was astonishing.

I stood behind her as she regarded herself in the mirror. Here was the cool, elegant Lady Suzume I had imagined, melancholy yet regal in a kimono of rich twilight purple. Above the obi, it was utterly plain, save for the Murasaki family crest rendered in ivory here and there, but below it was a summer landscape rendered in silk thread, a stream wending through a meadow, reeds and grasses--and fire flies, their little lights portrayed by the palest yellow-green. The obstinate obi, resplendent with gold and silver thread, had a pattern of round fans, not the kind which folded, but the kind affixed to a handle, each fan decorated with flowers, against a midnight purple background. From her knee to the floor, the outermost robe was parted to reveal the cloud-patterned hiyoku, like the sunset on the western horizon.

"It's beautiful." I said, wanting to say, _'You're beautiful'_, but not daring to. "Did you make it yourself?"

"Yes, of all the robes in the chest, this was the only one by my own hand. Hand-painted Yuzen fabric was considered more fashionable in the court at Edo, but my mother, who was from a very noble family in Kyoto--noble but not very well off--taught me to embroider in the Kyoto style. In truth, I am a much better artist with my needle than with a paintbrush. The obi was a gift, I did not weave it, but it inspired the design on the irotomesode. We, my brothers and sisters and I, used fans like these to chase and catch fireflies when we were children." She smiled wistfully. "This is my inner life, this robe.

"I don't remember ever chasing fireflies when I was a child." I said, My inner landscape is a bleak one: I had to wonder how Suzume would render it. An autumn field, stripped of its crops, with a solitary scarecrow left forlorn at his post, neither needed nor wanted any more? "If I had any time left at the end of the day, I read--when I wasn't too tired."

"But the fireflies come back every year," Suzume/Shoko turned her neck, to look up into my eyes. "And they are easy to catch, so such games have not disappeared beyond your reach. I--can very easily imagine chasing fireflies of a summer evening with you, some day very soon."

She was not merely talking about pursuing lightning bugs. My breath caught in my lungs for a moment--and then I did what I had been thinking of doing since I measured the space between her neck and her collar. I bent my head and kissed her there on that spot.

It was even better than baiting Kemp.


	55. Polyphobia: The Fear of Many Things

Like kitten footsteps—

the snow falls.

Like two cats in a sack—

three days of being snowbound.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

I had always read that the nape of a woman's neck is one of the most erotic parts of her body; _as_ a woman, I had severely doubted that. Now with Jun-san lips caressing my spine, I could finally understand what the poets were going on about. What I wanted—I will not write what I wanted, but my mind, which will always be tapping at things to see if they ring true, overbore my other instincts, and I could not do other than ask, "Have you had a great many lovers, Jun-san?", because I had been deceived before where men were concerned, if by men I mean one man, and that man, my husband Minoru.

I had been told he was as handsome as a god and as virtuous as Buddha, while his mother was as kind and as generous as Kannon, the goddess of mercy. (I had not believed _that_ monstrous lie, of course, not for one moment, but I had insisted that he should write to me before we met, that I might know his mind. I never learned who they found to pen his letters for him. When first we met, just before the wedding ceremony, I saw that his eyes were too deep-set and too close together for him to be called handsome. He, in turn, said aloud, "I hope the futons of our marriage bed are well padded, for it is the truth that she is not!" One can imagine my feelings upon hearing that. Then at the inn, on the first stop of our travels, when he enticed the waitress into the next room to that where his mother and I were taking tea, and made such noise as could not be ignored--

His mother said upon seeing my stricken face, "It is not good to love a man, daughter-in-law. Men are unreliable, and will only break your heart. Better to love babies instead. Lots and lots of babies." She said it with poisoned syrup on her tongue, and I knew then that I would never enjoy my married life. There were no babies, as it happened. Minoru and I might have managed together tolerably well as husband and wife, had it not been for his mother.

Yet I stray from the direct path, as swallows will dart hither and yon. I asked Jun-san whether he had had many lovers, and he immediately jumped back, his face going a shade of red-orange like a ripe persimmon. He stammered out—"No—I haven't. None at all, in fact."

I could not quite believe he had understood me correctly, because he woke in me such responses as I had never felt outside of my own imaginings and dreams. (Although if merely being experienced were enough, Minoru's visits to my chamber would not have been the exercises in boredom that they were.) "I mean, have you lain with many women or men and had—intimate contact with them? Physical contact?" I was trying to remain within the boundaries of delicacy.

"No. I haven't. Ever. With anyone." I must have looked disbelieving. "It just never happened. I—most people take a decade longer to become a doctor than I did. I studied hard—and, well, I told you about my parents. I was probably conceived in the back seat of a car or a bar bathroom stall. I wanted, I still want to live my life with greater... greater honor. And more intelligence."

"Indeed, that is commendable, but..." I could hardly remember what he had told me about his family, such was my agitation and so awkward was the way in which we then discoursed. "I do not think I understood about your family, not in detail. Your mother came of a good family who had fallen upon hard times, with nothing but exhausted lands to sustain them. That being so, she was your father's concubine, not his wife, is that not so? He therefore did not acknowledge you as his heir."

"It's worse than that. My father was a construction worker, a blue-collar laborer—you wouldn't know what blue-collar means, though."

"I think I can guess. Blue dye, indigo dye, is cheap and plentiful, and therefore is worn by those who have not the wherewithal or else the leisure to keep a white garment for working days. White is a color for those who do no physical toil." I told him.

"Yes...that's exactly it. Odd, how some aspects of our cultures mesh perfectly. Anyhow, my mother was underage, fourteen, fifteen years old, when she started frequenting bars, with a ton of makeup on and fake ID. That was where and how they met. He was twenty-seven."

"That I do not understand. Not how they met, but what is fake ID? And what of the age difference? Many marriages I knew of had such a disparity, or even greater." This puzzled me.

"In America, it is forbidden for persons under twenty-one to drink alcoholic beverages. She bought a false proof which stated her to be of age and snuck out when she was supposed to be studying. It's also illegal for a man to, um, lie with and have intimate contact with a girl under the age of eighteen, whether she consents or not."

"These strike me as commendable laws, but given human nature, difficult or impossible to enforce." I said, "but—then if a woman be over the age of eighteen, is it illegal for a man to lie with her if she does not consent?"

"Yes." He said it very matter-of-factly.

"Truly? What if she were intoxicated, or his wife or a servant, or in some other way bound to obey him?" No such disgrace and dishonor had ever fallen to me, but among the Inner Household, where there were a thousand women bound to the service of one man, most of whom will never have the honor of his embrace, there were those who sought it as a haven from the world of men. Some had been violated by a man whose nearness in blood should have forbidden it for that reason alone.

"Even then. Why?"

"Then—rape is illegal here?"

"You mean it wasn't in your time and place?"

"No." We looked at one another across a cultural divide as deep as the ocean trench that runs from Izu to Ogasawara. "But I think it is a—very positive development that it should be outlawed." I had to hunt for the words. "If a girl of the age your mother was acted so—which is of the least likelihood, for she would be very well supervised, even were she so inclined—depending upon her father's status, she would be thrown out into the street or else sold to either a brothel or pleasure house. It would be signs of the greatest depravity and vice in her."

"Uh—they would really have sold her?"

"Yes, if she were of the working classes."

"This is somewhat off-topic, but what is the difference between a brothel and a pleasure house, as you put it?"

"A brothel is...for physical release, and those who serve there are prostitutes, I suppose. Women who tie their obi in front. A pleasure house is for entertainment. It has courtesans, and a courtesan—she must have some accomplishments and attractions beyond those of the bedchamber. She must know how to sing or dance or play a musical instrument, play amusing games, be charming, perhaps write poetry or make witty remarks. They tie their obi in back. The top-ranking courtesans live as great ladies do, and can choose or refuse to bestow their favors on clients, however wealthy the man may be." I knew why he was asking such a question—because it was easier than talking of his mother's immorality.

"And a geisha? Is she a courtesan or a prostitute?"

"Oh, a geisha is another sort of flower entirely! They are artists first and foremost, and have but one patron at a time, for long-term arrangements. They make very expensive mistresses." There at least I had no fear. Kokomun-to had no geisha, being too far out of the way. Never mind—Minoru found other ways to spend money.

"I see."

"But your mother's family did not cast her out?" I was curious, and somewhat appalled.

"She might have been better off if they had." he admitted bleakly. "because they made her suffer for her sins. Once I was born, they made me suffer too." He told me, then, of cold winters in thin clothes, scanty meals, backbreaking work, all that he and his great-grandmother might survive while his grandmother sailed on pleasure boats and ate fish roe. His mother was then absent—how or where she lived, he did not know.

I could have cried immediately for what he had suffered. He delivered his story so flatly and without expression, hiding behind a stiff demeanor, no embellishments, no emotion. It cut me as to the very bone. I did not want my makeup to run, so instead I tilted my head back so the tears would run down my throat instead of out of my eyes.

"But you were a boy!" I said, when I could speak again. My voice squeaked, my throat was swollen and dry from the tears I swallowed rather than shed. "The first in generations, too. For all that the lands were exhausted, with better husbandry and new sharecroppers, they could be put back into good heart. With a male heir to honor the family name, there should have been great rejoicing at your birth! I knew of elderly matrons who did climb many steps to a shrine every day, there to burn incense and pray to the gods that their grandsons might live to be men. I knew of women who would fill their sons' bowls over and over until they were full, while their daughters sat and waited for the scrapings of the pot, so the boys might have the nourishment to thrive. There were mothers who cut up their last whole garment to make a warm coat for a child, and shivered in patchwork clothing. In Japan, children are cherished—all children, but especially boys." Except in my family. The Murasakis have never forgotten that our ancestress did in all ways equal or even excel over the men of her generation. We were noble before, but her achievements earned her promotion, which then she passed down unto us. Therefore girls in our family were held in especial esteem.

"Even those children who were sold into prostitution?" he asked.

"The Buddha teaches us that such events come about as a punishment for a past life. The rapist returns as a victim, the panderer as a prostitute, the miser as a poor man."

"What would he say about me?" Jun-san asked.

"That you had learned from both your past mistakes and your parents' poor example. From their promiscuity and self-indulgence, you learned to value virtue and sobriety. Despite few advantages and amid great obstacles, you pursued your education, vaulting over your fellows to an achievement few will ever reach, your doctorate. Despite the harshness and cruelty you knew, you instead have treated me with extraordinary kindness, respect and generosity, such that--." _that I do not know whether to love you or worship you_. "I have not known since I was a child in my father's house."

He laughed a little at that. "It's easy to be kind to you, Suzume." he said. "It's like—watering a wilted orchid and watching it perk up." I could have cried all over again at the sheer beauty of those words.

"Anyhow, now you know the story of my life—or more accurately, a summary of it." he finished. "I'm the illegitimate son of a laborer and a precocious teenager from a family of self-absorbed, selfish, self-righteous witches. Not noble, not even near it, and not worthy of your hand. You haven't even heard the worst of the things I've done. And I don't know about valuing virtue or sobriety. Drinking makes me sick and I'd be happy to give up the virtue under the right circumstances."

"You are a scholar and a physician, the both of which you achieved of your own merits," I told him. "Honors you have earned shine brighter than those which are merely inherited. I do not think you unworthy of my hand. Whatever you may have done—that you can relate to me in time. Now I think it best if you were to call Kemp, because otherwise I fear we might ruin all the hard work we did in dressing me."

* * *

A/N: A warm-and-fuzzy chapter for Christmas. I promise tension, action, aggression, Kemp-baiting, and scones next chapter. Okay, maybe not the scones.

Trying to get out of the morass of real life and back into writing. Sorry this took so long.


	56. Pentheraphobia:Fear of MothersinLaw

I have bad dreams at times-- what more prosaic thing could I have in common with the rest of humanity? Mine, however, are curiously dark and disturbing. When I dream, it is of asylum walls and doors that won't open, of leathery wings tearing the night asunder, and I wake clammy with sweat. Then I wonder, as Yureiko stirs and murmurs comfort to me, whether that is my true reality, whether I made her up inside my head, a girl who is lovely and gentle, strange enough that my own strangeness goes unnoticed, imperfect enough to be real, with all the qualities lacking in my family—the capacity to care about someone other than herself, the ability to recognize that she is not the center of the universe, the radical notion that I might be a human being rather a combination beast of burden/whipping boy.

But then I think of the things I could not have made up and would never have experienced were she merely a figment of my imagination, such as calamari-sweet potato omelets, which are surprisingly tasty, and her scones, which are not. Baking as it is known in the Western world, pies and cakes and such, is not a traditional Japanese cooking method. Although she tries very hard, and neither the taste nor the texture, nor even the density of her baked goods is, individually, that bad, the combination of the three _is_ bad enough, so much so that I still have to dispose of the evidence in the trash or down the sink later.

Therefore she is real, and I am a very fortunate man—finally, and I hope, lastingly—except when it comes to homemade desserts.

I can live with that.

The first stage of preparing for Kemp's visit that day was complete: dressing Suzume. The next stage was: set the scene. My idea was to parcel out the treats, a few at a time, never letting him see everything at once. If his gratification was parceled out in small but regular doses, he would keep coming back for more. Today it was to be the clothing. Tomorrow--well, I would allow for inspiration. The chest was upstairs, in the spare room, which would be locked. Suzume assured me that even if Kemp went on a rampage, her unique powers would ensure the room stayed sealed. We would meet him downstairs in the living room, just as the day before. That meant a certain amount of fetching and carrying.

'_That went better than I expected_,' said the Scarecrow, as we gathered up what Kemp would get to see that day. He was following me down the stairs as I hefted a pair of kimono boxes. '_You told her you/we were a virgin and she didn't laugh, run for the hills, or look at us as if she thought we were weird. She seemed to think it was unusual but not significantly abnormal. That's a positive development._'

_'I thought I was over this business of manifesting multiple personalities_.' I snapped at him mentally. Unaware of the conversation going on, Suzume went on refolding the garments she had taken out of the box while looking for her current ensemble.

_'Not while you're still of two or more minds about things,_' he said, and smirked. I could tell he was smirking, even though I couldn't see his face. It was in his _voice_.

_'How I look forward to never seeing you again_.' I riposted.

_'If you're not careful, you'll end up seeing me in the mirror_.' he replied, and vanished when I turned the corner of the stairs.

I wondered what he meant.

Shoko (Again, I had to keep it fixed in my mind that when Kemp was around, Suzume was Shoko) and I arranged things and ran over what we would say and do when the professor came over. While we laid out the various pieces, I could see she was stealing glances at my face. "Is something wrong?" I asked.

"No." she replied. "Only I wished to say that while there are many things I do not understand about your family, I do not think there was any way you could have pleased your great-grandmother. Had you been athletic and not scholarly, she would have scorned you for a dullard; more obedient, she would have said there was no spine in you. If you were a farmer born, then you would have lacked ambition. Where a person looks to find fault, they will find fault."

She was naively trying to offer me comfort, but I had known the truth of what she said for many years. I might have snapped at someone else for their pathetic attempts at psychotherapy--yet when I looked at her serious, sincere expression, I could not say a harsh word. How could I crush the illusions of a lovely girl who thinks me the soul of kindness and generosity?

"In any case, I think it very likely that your great-grandmother was, in one of her previous incarnations, my mother-in-law--although since you say she is far gone in senility, I would not be able to say beyond question."

"Certainly they seem to share a number of personality traits," I agreed cautiously, "but why do you think that should be the case?"

"Because it is karma which brought my dowry chest to you, and karma binds people together through many lives, in good ways and in bad. Relationships begun in one life recur in others, until the persons involved learn how to resolve their issues, shed their hostility, their earthly needs and their attachments. Then they can move up the wheel of rebirth toward Nirvana. Given how the last cycle ended, I do not think that either my husband or my mother-in-law can have achieved enlightenment as yet. It has been only two hundred years, after all."

"I respect your beliefs and your point of view," I said, "but in the Western world, the general belief is that we get only one life in which work out our issues and break unhealthy attachments and needs."

"Truly? One lifetime does not seem nearly enough to achieve all of that."

I sighed. "You have a point--who else do you think is someone you know reborn?" I had known people who believed, or claimed to believe, in reincarnation and past lives before. Who has not? None of those people had quite the attitude toward it that Suzume/Shoko had. She believed in it as people in the Western world must have believed in Christianity before the Reformation--it was simply a fact. Nor did her beliefs agree completely with the precepts of Buddhism as I understood them.

"I would not be at all surprised if your mother should turn out to be the reincarnation of my husband. Souls have no gender, after all. Both of them are, or were, persons whose own immediate pleasures overrode all other considerations. I would not know for certain unless I were to meet her."

"Is it easy to recognize a new incarnation?" There was no arguing with her on this, especially considering that she, after spending two hundred years dead, for all intents and purposes, was standing before me now, apparently alive and well. That rendered her position unassailable.

"It is not easy, but if you knew the person well in a previous life, then it is possible. My father had a sister, Harumi, who died a few months before I was born, so when I began to act like her as I grew, he was not at all surprised."

"I see," I said, while I considered what to say next. I did not believe her--I am a man of science, and I take nothing 'on faith'. I was curious on one point, though. "...what about me? Did we know each other before?"

"Ye--es," she said, carefully, "yet how we knew each other is not easily explained. I fear we have not the time now and besides you look as though your head is starting to hurt you again." We went back to work.

Time for the third stage: bait the trap. I removed the digital camera from its hiding place and took it upstairs. Kemp would want some proof, and a few pictures should accomplish that. First, however, I loaded the footage from yesterday into the computer, watched a little to make sure it had come out right, and then sent it as an attachment to the email address given me by the Interpol agent. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

After that I took a few shots of the open chest, then sat down to email Kemp. _'We got the chest open last night. Come over and bring something for show-and-tell.'_

His reply was swift and incisive. _'Do not pull the longbow with me_.'

That was an archaic expression...he was telling me not to tell him tall tales. _'Check the attachment on my last email._' I shot back.

_'When can I come over_?' was his next message.

_'Any time you like_.' The bait was taken. I turned to Shoko. "Are you ready? Do you remember what you'll say and do when he arrives?"

"Yes, I do. I will wait upstairs until he is looking at the kimono boxes, and then I shall come down and say, 'Jon-atan, I found the film camera.' And this is the film camera here." She held it up.

"That's right." I replaced the digital camera on the bookshelf and concealed it as before.

"And do you remember what I told you about my clothing?" she asked me.

"I believe so. Murasaki was not only your family name, it was an expensive purple dye, the use of which was restricted to the ranks of the upper nobility. You--that is, Lady Suzume--was entitled to wear it, but not your husband or his mother. Maidens wore floor length sleeves, married women wore hip length, and so forth." It would not do for me, the amateur expert on Edo Japan, to reveal my relative ignorance, so Shoko had briefed me.

"Yes. Are we ready?" She looked up at me, tiny, dainty, and pretty as a poison-dart tree frog.

"Yes. Yes, we are." I said.

"And you will not leave me alone with him at any time?"

"You can't tell me you're afraid of what he might do to you? With your powers?" I teased her.

"Only somewhat--he makes me feel soiled. I am also afraid of what I might do to him."

* * *

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! A bit belated...like this chapter. This time I have a really lame reason.

Batman Arkham Asylum, the video game: if you don't have it, you should seriously consider getting it. Why? Even if you're not a hardcore gamer, (and I'm not) playing it is like being in a movie--as a participant in the action, not just watching. It's amazing--plus it has a coherent story, great dialog and snark, spot-on characterizations (Scarecrow has rarely looked better or been more scary) and it's exhilarating having Batman glide from the top of Arkham Mansion over the island below. Not to mention performing such moves as hanging from a gargoyle to grab a Joker thug by the neck and leave him dangling by his feet. It's not just the big things that are impressive, either--small details like having an ordinary thug shift his weight from foot to foot while standing guard, slap at bugs and scratch himself make this game a convincingly realistic experience. Dust billows and settles when Batman leaps to a ledge; pollen twinkles in the air around Poison Ivy.

The premise is simple: Batman escorts the Joker back to Arkham Island (instead of one building, this Arkham is a multibuilding complex which includes a botanic garden) but it's all a huge setup. Over the course of the night, chaos takes over--at the start there are plenty of security officers, with whom Batman can interact, but when he returns later, their bodies are strewn about the landscape, some posed grotesquely. It's appalling, even though these aren't even actors, just programming. There are plenty of familiar faces, such as Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, and Killer Croc, and the Riddler is omnipresent even though he never makes an appearance on screen, because he has left riddles and challenges all over the island. Moreover, to add to the authenticity, they got the voice actors from the animated Batman series to reprise their roles. Do not expect a Heath Ledger type Joker--this one is the spindly caricature, yet effective nonetheless. Besides, how can you not love dialog like the Joker saying, right before the first Scarecrow encounter, "What's your worst fear? Rats? Spiders? Me in a thong?"

I offer that image to all the yaoi fans out there....

Those are all pros. Now for the cons: like I said, I'm a noob to this kind of gaming. Making Batman move, use gadgets, and fight hand-to-hand is complicated, even though the game ( at least in Easy setting) prompts the player. I get killed a lot (not so bad, because then a villain comes out to taunt Bats) while trying to figure out how to do the moves required. More, just when you're getting used to moving, then you're thrown into an environment where normal rules don't apply, like Scarecrow's hallucinations--or when trying to escape from Killer Croc at the end of his segment. Also, my computer's graphics card wasn't up to running the game; I had to find a new one which met the minimum requirements without overtaxing my computer or needing a separate power source. It would have been nice to know that in advance, but since the resulting graphics are nothing short of stunning, it's hard to get too upset about that. Plus, I didn't understand how to accumulate the Riddler's clues--'Batarang the teeth for points' didn't come up for some time, and I had to read some hints on gameplay to find out to scan to make other clues count.

My final word on this game: A+. I promise it will offer inspiration to the fic writers out there.


	57. Xylophobia: The Fear of Wooden Objects

Dry leaves—

Even a mouse

Sounds as large as a bear.

--Yureiko Tsuruta Crane

* * *

It is not for nothing that I am a psychiatrist. Shoko was speaking with more bravado than she truly felt. She was afraid. Why? I had made it sound as though she were invulnerable, which she was not. I knew first-hand that she could be drugged, and when unconscious she was as vulnerable as any mortal creature. In the document the previous owner left with the chest, he wrote about how he had hit her with a baseball bat, hard, how she had cried like a child before she fell unconscious. She could be hurt, perhaps even 'killed', after a fashion. Yet she could sever a finger with a kitchen knife without pain or as much as a drop of blood spilled. What were her limits? Did she even know?

Suddenly I had a moment of great intellectual epiphany. Kami ( I had looked them up) were often nature spirits, elemental spirits. Greek philosophy had it that the world was made up of the four elements of Air, Fire, Water, and Earth, but if I recalled correctly, Asian philosophy had it somewhat differently, dividing Earth into Wood and Metal.

Five elements—. There was no doubt that Suzume's nature bore an affinity to Water. She dissolved into water at the police station, and coalesced again from air. Air _carried_ water, in the form of humidity and clouds. Metal cut through water, dividing it but _not harming it_. Water doused fire, or else fire turned it into steam—again, without harming it. Wood, though—. The wooden chest she had been trapped in, the paper charms which had bound her spirit to her bones—. Whether in the form of living roots or cut wood, or even paper products, wood absorbed water, trapping it. Wood fed on water. Wood was water's enemy. Wood could hurt Suzume.

However, my hypothesis needed testing. How? I wasn't about to hit her with anything like a baseball bat or a table leg—but there were other ways. "Give me your hand." I ordered her.

She complied. "Now hold still a moment. This might sting a little bit— I ran the edge of a piece of paper across her fingers, and she let out a squeak of surprise.

"That's a paper cut." I said in triumph, looking at the thin red line which welled up with blood as I watched. "Paper cuts you, and wood can hurt you. Here, it isn't that bad." I blotted away the blood with a tissue.

'Now kiss it and make it better,' Dr. Crane commanded.

'What?' Scarecrow and I asked as one.

'Minor role plays of parent-child behavior are all part of the mating ritual. She mothers you with cooking, you demonstrate your ability to look after your potential offspring's—ah, boo-boos.'

'Do you have to call them _boo-boos_?' Scarecrow complained, 'Because that sticks in my craw.'

'Technically I don't think you have a craw.' I told him, dabbing at her hand. 'I'm not about to kiss her boo-boo—ugh!—the word, not the deed, because she is not four years old and I am not her daddy. If that's the sole criteria for mate selection, too bad.'

I pressed her hand gently instead and apologized. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to test a theory which occurred to me." I explained it to her as briefly as I could. "So while wood won't hurt you if you just touch it, it can injure you where a knife or a bullet would not. Avoid situations where someone is likely to use a wooden weapon, that's all."

She looked at me and at her hand with some amazement. "How did you know?"

"I _am_ a scientist," I replied modestly. "But hurry now and go upstairs. Kemp will be here any minute."

"Yes!" she said, dashing up the stairs. Despite the many layers of her outfit, she moved with effortless ease. I had always thought kimonos were stiff, restrictive garments, but whether the difference was the fabric or the way she wrapped it, or simply that wearing one was second nature to her, on her it draped gracefully, the hem rippling around her ankles as she went.

I cast a glance over the living room, looking for anything I might have missed. There were the four kimono boxes, the digital camera was out of sight, and so was my voice recorder. The stage was ready—on with the show.

Kemp did not disappoint. I watched him from the front window, staying out of sight behind a curtain. He hesitated before he took the first step from the sidewalk to the path leading to my house, and I waited, my breath in my throat. Had we needled him too hard yesterday? Was he going to leave?

No. His shoulders squared, his spine stiffened, and he came up the walk. I threw the door open before he could knock. "Come on in. We've got a surprise for you." I smiled at him. No obvious attempts to cow him or terrorize him, not today, not from me. Today we would prey upon him in so subtle a manner that he would not realize it.

"Other than that you got the chest open?" he asked, brushing past me.

"Yes, beyond that—although that would have been enough. We had an amazing night. I mean, getting the chest open and going through it, that is."

"How did you do it? What was the secret?" he asked hungry for details.

"There were catches all the way around concealed among the nail heads," I informed him. "Look at these." I swept my arm at the kimono boxes.

He opened the nearest one, and I heard his startled gasp. "Her clothing...yes, this is the Murasaki crest!" With reverent hands he lifted out a dark red robe decorated with tousled white chrysanthemums. "In perfect condition, too." He raised it to his face, inhaling the slight dry scent of the sachets which perfumed all the garments. "Yet—the fashion in Edo at the time was for small patterns repeated all over the fabric, not large motifs on a plain ground."

"Perhaps she didn't care for small prints, but preferred a simpler style. You have to make allowances for individuality."

He grimaced at me, and sniffed haughtily. "You don't understand the Japanese character. Conformity is far more important than self-expression, even today. Ask your Shoko—where is she, by the way?"

"Upstairs, looking for our other camera. She'll be down in a moment." We could hear her moving around overhead, which added a convincing touch to what she was supposedly doing.

Kemp nodded abstractly, not really interested, not while there were his idol's garments to go through. He picked up another article. "Ah, a homongi. Now what occasion would this be appropriate for?" He raised an eyebrow at me, holding up the kimono.

It was a challenge. This was where my briefing on Edo fashions paid off. The robe was dark beige with light beige silhouettes of various plants, overlaid with black branches bearing small crimson flowers. "Bamboo, plum blossoms, and pine branches, together known as 'The Three Friends', were motifs for New Year's celebrations, and homongi translates as 'visiting wear', so it's a kimono for paying social calls on New Year's Day." I was always a very quick study.

"Very good," he bestowed upon me.

"Thank you, _Professor_," I said with a touch of asperity. Fortunately for my resolution to be pleasant today, I heard the light step of Shoko on the stairs at that very moment.

"I have found the film camera, Jon-atan," she said, and we both turned. Thanks to the placement of the mirror, I could see Kemp's reaction. His jaw dropped, and he literally turned pale.

"Mu—murasaki," he stammered. "Truly—this is Murasaki."

'Murasaki', of course, could be taken more than one way, and Shoko chose to take it as other than a family name. "Yes, indeed. More of a koki-murasaki, which is to say, murasaki dye darkened with lye and vinegar, but undoubtedly murasaki. Is it not wonderful that the color should have endured? I credit it to having been stored away from light and air for so long, otherwise it should have greyed long since." She took a turn about the room, showing off the ensemble, a bright smile upon her lips which did not quite match the expression in her eyes.

"This, of course, is your surprise. As someone who already has an example of her embroidery, this should be of especial interest to you. It's her own work."

"Is it? How can you tell?" he asked. "The writing was the only embroidery on the jacket, it wasn't decorative, as this is."

She extended her arm and turned it so he could see the writing stitched at the sleeve edge. "'Brief as the firefly's flash: Such was my happiness—and my life. All that I am I have stitched onto this robe. Lady Suzume Murasaki,'" she quoted, "and as you can see, the style of embroidery is entirely of a piece, the work of one hand."

"Let me see!" Kemp sprang forward, and she recoiled a little.

"Please, Professor! Personal space!" I chided him.

"Oh—I beg your pardon, Shoko-san. Might I look more closely at it?"

He recovered himself, and she smiled graciously. "Yes." This time he kept at arm's length, bending over from the waist to read the characters.

"What an act of self assertion it must have been, to sit in front of her mother-in-law, hour after hour, embroidering that robe," I speculated. "reminding her that she was beneath her daughter-in-law in every way but their relationship to one another. Even if Suzume never wore it, simply owning a garment that Lady Minoru wasn't entitled to wear, and not hiding it away—that strikes me as a minor rebellion, a sign of feelings she could not express openly." We hadn't discussed why she had embroidered it, but I thought it a topic of conversation that could not help but lead interesting places.

I was right. "That's hardly a ladylike motivation," Kemp protested indignantly, "and she was nothing if not a lady."

"You say that as if she was some—I don't know, a saint or else a doll, which cannot move nor think nor feel. Saints are all goodness, and dolls are whatever their owners determine that they are. She was a person, and a woman, not merely a lady. And I do not think she would want to be revered as a saint or a goddess, nor yet be a doll to be dressed and posed and played with. She would want to be loved in a human way, not perfectly, but for herself, imperfect and human." Shoko refuted.

She continued, "And her motivation, like her secret love, must have been locked away deep in her heart. Perhaps it was the only plain length of silk in her dowry, and she had hoped to make it into a—you would call it a christening gown, for taking her children to the temple for blessing, and when she lost hope of that, made it into as beautiful a garment as she could imagine in her mind and make with her skill. She may never have thought of that as an act of rebellion—although her mother-in-law may have taken it amiss anyhow. Or perhaps she did do so deliberately. Her behavior cannot be judged so simply as to say it was 'lady-like' or 'not lady-like'!"

She calmed down. "Anyhow, Jon-atan, I have found the film camera, so now you must tell me how you want me to pose."

This was the meat of the matter. After drugging her, Kemp had dressed Naomi Miyabe in traditional costume and taken photographs of her. He could not fail to be affected, and very strongly, by watching Shoko and I recreate that, with her full and willing cooperation.

"Over by the window," I instructed her, taking the camera as she passed me, "with your back toward me, but turn your head so I can see your profile. You don't mind, Professor, do you? This light won't last."

"No, not at all," he said, politely, "I'll just carry on with these boxes while you're busy there."

But I noticed that he paid more attention to what we were doing than to the clothing.....

* * *

TBC.... Why, oh why, do these blizzards have to happen on the weekend? We had one back in December, and now February sees two feet of snow dumped on us. Why not during the week so I can have off with pay? Forgot the haiku last chapter, but I won't do that again.


	58. Erotophobia: The Fear of Sexual Topics

Exotic positions:

like so many things

more fun in the thought

than the deed.

---Yureiko Tsuruta Crane

* * *

The photography was intended to churn up all the memories of when he had last had a helpless woman in his grasp, but there was more to my intent than that. I wanted to hurt him at the bone, and I had a special weapon sharpened for him.

Striking a pose in the light streaming through the window, Shoko looked over her shoulder at me. "Is this what you wanted, Jon-atan?"

"Not quite." I said, "Here, let me help." Going over to her, I moved her face into position with a gentle touch that became a brief caress of her cheek. We were fully in Kemp's view, and by glancing indirectly in the stairwell mirror, I could see him watching us.

At the touch of my hand, Shoko smiled at me, a bright, winsome smile that did things to the region of my solar plexus. Objectively, Shoko/Suzume did not have perfect features. Her upper lip was too short and her chin a trifle weak, among other things. But features on their own do not make a person, the whole can indeed be greater than the sum of its parts, and I was no longer capable of being entirely objective when it came to her.

I smiled back, trying to put tenderness into the expression, and I believe I succeeded. A look of mild disgust crossed the British professor's face, as though he smelled sewage gas.

Stepping back, I raised the camera to my face. "After what I went through to tie that obi, I want a permanent record of it." I snapped a picture. "Now turn to the left, slowly, and let the underkimono show. Traditional garb truly suits you, by the way. Not that you don't look nice in modern clothing, but in a cute way. Dressed like this, you're--I won't say it."

She blushed. "Oh, no, not really. As they say, fine feathers make fine birds. It is the kimono which is beautiful, not I."

"There we're just going to have to disagree." I took another picture. "Wait, hold still. I'll move."

This dialog, these actions had been plotted out and rehearsed beforehand, to a specific aim--to not only stick the knife into Kemp, but then to twist it.

The way we, Shoko and I, interacted would rip at his entrails, and our weapon was happiness--a subtle psychological torture. Kemp and I were enough alike to trouble me deeply, true. Yet that meant I knew where he lived, so to speak. I knew where to strike to cause him pain. The sort of person who falls obsessively in love with a figment of his imagination--and the Suzume he worshipped so fervently was no more than that--is a pathetically lonely, completely ineffective personality. Human beings are social animals, and the inability to form intimate personal connections is an indicator--a _huge_ indicator--that an individual is marginalized. 'Intimate' doesn't mean romantic; the bond between parent and child is not a romantic one, but deeply intimate nevertheless. Kemp had no close friends, no family, nothing but his obsession.

I knew that sort of loneliness. I knew what it was to be perpetually on the outside, looking in at families where there were two parents who showed affection for each other and for their children, and at the friendships which others formed so effortlessly all around me in my school years, and then the couples in who were obviously in love. Not the ones who tongued and groped each other publicly, flaunting their lust before the world, but the ones who radiated a tranquil harmony, finding joy simply in each others' presence. I would look at this world from which it seemed I was born exiled, outcast, and wonder--why not me? What is wrong with me? What's the secret, and why can't I learn it? That sort of envy and rancor hurts like being rolled around naked in a bag full of broken glass, and it is no easier to bear at twenty-six than it was at sixteen or at six, and if it did not rankle still at sixty-six years, than I knew nothing of human psychology. Indeed, the accumulated rancor of years was very likely concentrated in Kemp's shriveled, corrupted heart.

He was pretending to be absorbed in going through the rest of the winter wardrobe box, but his true attention was focused on us, all on us. I moved a finger to signal Shoko to go on.

She caught my cue, and laughed. "You only think me alluring dressed like this because you are a Westerner. If you were Japanese, you would be used to seeing your mother wearing kimono for special occasions since you were very small. So you would associate kimonos with events like weddings and funerals where you had to be quiet and good when you were very, very bored. It would not be at all interesting or exciting to see me wearing a kimono."

"That is not the proper way of wearing a kimono," Kemp put in sharply. "You have it wrapped too loosely. Who taught you how to wear one?"

"My mother did, and I am sorry, but you are wrong. This is the proper way of wearing a kimono from that era." Shoko refuted politely, more politely than he deserved. "There are many pictures which show how kimono were worn."

"In any case, you still have it wrapped improperly, the right over the left. You're dressed like a corpse." Ah, so he had noticed. Good. Very good. He sounded perturbed--even better.

"I am wearing this gown in the place of Murasaki O-Suzume-sama, who is dead, and so I wear it as the dead wear theirs." was her sweet reply. She had moved to half-face Kemp, and I seized on that.

"Great. Hold still--no. Turn a little more so I get your three-quarter profile. So-- to get back to what we were talking about before, what would I find exciting and interesting on you, if I was Japanese?" I took another photo.

"My old school uniform, probably. Men would often find my classmates and me fascinating when dressed for school, but ignore us in our street clothes. Not everyone, though," she explained. "only older men who are...fetishists? Is that the word?"

"Yes. Now how about if you stand there by the side table..."

"And then there are those Westerners who are interested in Japanese girls only because they are Japanese, which I think must be a fetish on its own."

"Can you be sure he isn't one of those, Shoko-san?" Kemp interrupted, with cynicism in his voice.

"Insofar as anyone can be sure of another, yes." She beamed at me. "Jon-atan did not want to meet me _at all_. We met on line when he was looking for more information about Kokomun-to. One of my grandfathers lived there for several years and we visited him there, so I told him about it and then we talked about other things. We exchanged e-mails for about a year before the company I was working for wanted demonstrators to go to America for a trade show. I was chosen because I speak such good English. This was before Jon-atan moved to Gotham City. He was internalizing--."

"You mean interning," I corrected her, smiling. We were imitating a degree of intimacy that we hadn't actually reached yet (if ever), that state of blissful happiness that even a lake full of acid could not cut--said lake being Kemp's stomach, with any luck. For two amateurs, we were, I thought, doing rather well.

"Thank you. Interning at a hospital in the same city, so I suggested that we meet for coffee. He said no."

I took over. Kemp was following the story intently. "Yes. It's true. Now, while we had been exchanging e-mails for some time, when someone on the internet tells me they're a twenty-three year old female, single, quite petite, with hair down below her waist and weigh less than forty-five kilos, I believe only about one word in three, if that."

"But I sent you a picture!" Shoko protested.

"Yes, you did, but you could have captured that image from somewhere on line. The photo she sent was of a lovely, but very young-looking, girl in a blue sundress enjoying a day at the sea-side. Given the nature of on line relationships, I immediately assumed it was more wishful thinking than a true representation of how she looked. _Then_ she said she was going to be in town and wanted to meet me. Well, I doubted the veracity of the invitation. I thought it was a set-up of some kind. If someone who looked like the photograph was there, then either I would shortly find myself under arrest for soliciting a minor or I would wake up somewhere unpleasant missing my wallet at the very least. The other possibility would be that my mysterious correspondant would turn out to be a stalker who was less physically--not to mention mentally and emotionally--attractive than she seemed."

"Yet you met anyway." Kemp observed.

"Yes." Shoko dimpled. "Because I did stalk him--a little."

"What?" Kemp asked, astonished. He who had been a stalker was shocked to think the tables could be turned.

"Only a little! But not in a bad way and he _did_ forgive me."

"She tracked me down at the hospital. I hadn't told her which one, only that it was a university hospital. Since even a large city doesn't have that many university hospitals, it didn't take her long to find out where I was. So I was getting ready to go off-shift when a colleague told me someone was looking for me... I turned around, and there was this tiny girl with huge dark eyes. She looked scared half to death."

"I was!" she agreed. "But I said 'Doctor Jonathan Crane? I am Kuwano Shoko. I'm sorry.' and he said, 'I'm not--that is, I'm not sorry. I _am_ Jonathan Crane.' And that is how we met."

"It is indeed. But..." Leaving Kemp no time to respond, I paused and frowned. "That pose isn't quite right. Can you put your left hand on the table and look to the right? Pick your skirt up a little with your right hand, like Madame X."

"Like who?" Shoko asked.

"Madame X. It's a famous portrait by John Singer Sargent." Kemp snapped.

"I don't know it." She shook her head, looking puzzled.

I cast a stern look at the professor. "I don't think that kind of tone is called for. Why should she know that particular painting? Not everybody is an expert in another culture's art."

He produced a rather grisly smile. "I--apologize. I'm afraid I must be rather dyspeptic today. That's the second time I've been short-tempered with you, Kuwano Shoko-san. Please forgive me."

"More like the third or fourth," I muttered sotto voce, so he could hear me (but couldn't call me out on it.)

Shoko hesitated just a moment too long, allowing her hurt to register fully. "Of course. Please excuse my shameful ignorance." Perhaps I was generalizing, but it seemed to me that the Japanese form of politeness allowed for a great deal of passive-aggressive irony. What she was saying was, _'I may be ignorant, but you're offensive, and that is a lot worse_.' Glossed over with pretty language, like the frosting on a rather dry cake. "Jon-atan, do you have a copy of this picture, so I understand better?" We were venturing into the territory of ad-libbing at this point, but we had not gotten lost...at least not yet.

"Yes." I put the camera down, and went over to my bookshelves. Unfortunately, the book in question was one of those concealing the digital camera. Thinking frantically, I took down a different volume, this one on Spanish art. "Actually, I think as far as poses go, these would be more interesting." Turning to the section on Goya, I found the page with the Clothed and the Unclothed Maia.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You don't want me to take the kimono off, do you?" Kemp swallowed hard; I saw his adam-apple bob, and he turned back to the kimono boxes. (But he still watched us, like a cat watching a pair of birds.)

"No, no." I shook my head. "It's the sensuality I want to capture. The clothed version is just as charged as the nude--perhaps even more so."

"I don't know," she said dubiously. "but perhaps--perhaps if I began by sitting as I do when I must sit for a long time and want to be comfortable." Kneeling on the floor, she shifted her pose to lean her weight slightly on one hip, and her right hand keeping her knees together and her feet tucked to one side. I left the book within her arm's reach, and looked through the camera viewfinder.

"That's very nice. Rather like the statue of the Little Mermaid. The one in Copenhagen, not the Disney version." I took a picture.

Her brow crinkled; she knew neither one. I hoped Kemp would take it that she didn't know of any little mermaid _but_ the Disney.

"It is rather strange, that Westerners should choose to portray so many people in the nude in their art," she commented, leafing through the book, pausing at Velasquez's Venus. "It is not something often seen in Japanese art--at least in traditional art."

"Why is that?" I asked. "An excess of modesty?" Kemp's face had sprouted a mustache of sweat; I could see the sheen--and the room was not that warm.

"No, not at all. I mean, everybody has a body, young or old, rich or poor, and at times, we all of us are naked. Even in mixed company, like at a hot spring, and nobody thinks anything of it. It would be unthinkably rude to notice, but one can't help but see at times--if you understand the difference. Most people look better clothed, anyhow. Even in erotic art, people are more clothed than not--it's just that certain parts show." Shoko said, in as straightforward and unashamed a way as if she were discussing the weather. "Or not even that--there is a very famous print of a courtesan enjoying incense, the smoke flowing from the burner under her robes, caressing her everywhere--and nothing is seen but the burner at her feet and a little of the smoke rising from the neck of her kimono."

Kemp made a small choking sound. I wanted to, myself, but settled for flushing crimson instead. Suzume/Shoko could be quite a contradiction; demure yet frank, modest and explicit at the same time. Not unlike the work she spoke of...

TBC....

* * *

References:

John Singer Sargent's Madame X: http :// en. / wiki/ Portrait_of_Madame_X

Goya's Maia, clothed and unclothed: http : // en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Francisco_Goya

Hans Christian Andersen's Little Mermaid, in the Copenhagen harbor: http : // www .hcandersen-homepage. dk/ skulptur_den_lille_havfrue. htm

Velasquez's Venus: http : //en . /wiki /Rokeby_Venus

While I have seen the print of the courtesan enjoying incense, it was ages ago and now I can't find the image.

A/N: Remember how I wished for a weekday snowstorm so I could have off. This falls into the category of 'Be careful what you wish for...' Because last week I got it. Another foot of snow on top of eighteen inches. I was off for four days--four days with only intermittant internet, two brief power outages, and way, way too much shoveling. AAAck!


	59. Agateophobia: The Fear of Insanity

A slug on a white rose--

the touch of a lecher's eyes

no difference.

--Yureiko Tsuruta Crane.

* * *

But then Kemp struck, from a direction I should have anticipated, at the weakest flank we had. "Shoko-san, if I recall correctly, you said that you were born in Echigo Province."

"Yes, you have it right, in Tokamachi," she replied.

"Did you live there long?" he asked.

"Off and on, until I was about eight."

"A lovely area, which I have visited several times. I had the pleasure of being there for the snow festival once, many years ago. Are the summers still as gentle and mild as I remember them?"

"I am afraid you must be confusing Tokamachi with some other town," she smiled, "because after the rainy season and well on towards autumn, it is very hot and humid there, much more so than one would think, given how snowy and long the winters are."

"Ah, you are right. Did you ever visit Niigata Prefecture while you were in Echigo?" he asked.

Her brow creased. "Niigata Prefecture…No, not that I recall, unless you mean the city of Niigata itself. I know of no Niigata Prefecture. Perhaps it might be that you are confusing areas in your mind once more?" she suggested.

"No, no, I don't think so," Kemp smiled in satisfaction. "Echigo as a separate province no longer exists, Shoko-san. It merged with Sado to become Niigata Prefecture back in the Meiji era—which is to say, about a hundred years ago. These days the only place in Japan named Echigo any longer is the Echigo-Yuzawa train station. The question is, if, as you say, you lived in Niigata Prefecture for eight years, off and on,--why you don't know this?"

Shoko/Suzume was taken aback. "I—I—, that is I—." she said, casting about for some explanation. Trapped! So easily, and all out of ignorance.

If this situation was to be saved, I had to act. "Shoko, did you take your medication this morning?" I asked.

She darted a grateful glance at me before she bowed her head in shame. "No. I'm sorry." Bright girl; she knew very well she wasn't on any medication, but she could spot a life-line when it was thrown to her.

"You know you have to take it every morning in order for it to work properly," I chided her gently. "I know you don't like the side effects, but you don't have these spells of confusion when you're on it. We've talked about this before--you need to be actively involved in your treatment, and that includes taking your medication."

She seemed to shrink into herself a little more. "It is my fault," she agreed, dolefully, "and I am sorry."

"I'll get if for you now. Wait here, I'll be right back. Professor,"I said, looking over at him, "Shoko is not completely comfortable about being left alone with you. I trust you will not do or say anything to confirm her suspicions for the minute it will take me to go to the medicine cabinet and back."

"Certainly not." he said with surprise. No doubt he thought the front he presented to the world was unexceptional in every way; one distinction between the two of us. At least I was self-aware.

I bounded up the stairs, thinking furiously. One of the things I did know about modern Japan was the social stigma and lack of understanding which many people there still had concerning mental illnesses. Only a fraction of the psychopharmaceutical drugs on the market had been approved of for use there, and fewer still were in widespread use. Even Prozac was unavailable there, for Jung's sake! I could work with that...

I was back in a moment with a tumbler of water and a single white pill--just an acetominaphen, but Kemp wouldn't know the difference. The pill was generic, especially when seen from across the room.

Shoko looked at the pill with apprehension and dismay, as if she had never seen such a thing before in her life. Later I learned that was indeed the case--in her era, medicines were powders that came in little paper packets which one mixed with water, tea or sake before taking it. She thought, in fact, that I wanted her to swallow a small stone game-piece. However, I had had patients who were just as reluctant to take their meds, and her reaction was not out of the ordinary.

"It's all right," I reassured her. "Take it. The side effects will lessen as your system becomes more accustomed to it."

She nodded, took the pill and swallowed it with a sip of water, rather as if she was steeling up the resolve to take a cyanide capsule. We went back to taking photographs, but the mood, that thrilling sense of tension laced with sensuality, had gone. I was irked, but rather than ruining the visit, that incident took matters to a higher level.

Kemp looked at the rest of the clothing, making a few notes on the motifs and cataloging items as he went--but while he was not as actively involved in what we were doing, he was still watching and listening. As I paused to reload the camera, he took the opportunity to ask me privately, "What's wrong with her?"

"It's difficult to explain. For the past several years she's been remembering, or seeming to remember, the past of Suzume's day. It's not as much of a problem here as it was in Tokyo, because she doesn't go looking for a shop that hasn't been in existence for over a hundred years or get lost because the street plan changed. At first, the doctors there thought she was making it up--then, well, you know the predominant cultural attitude towards mental disorders in Japan as well as I do."

"But what _is_ it? Good heavens, man! I thought you had a degree in psychiatry!_"_

"I do, " I said coldly_, "_and I will thank you to keep your voice down_._ I am not her doctor--that would be unethical in the extreme as well as immoral and illegal. They have it classified as a delusional disorder, unspecified type_."_

_"_Not schizophrenia?" he asked.

"No. She is in all other ways stable, rational, no danger to herself or others, and her beliefs are non-bizarre--."

"Non-bizarre?" he exclaimed, affronted. "What would you call bizarre, then?"

"Bizarre is wearing hats made of tin-foil so the aliens can't read your thoughts and talking to people who aren't there. Bizarre is drowning your children because God told you to or believing your purpose in life is to dress up in a costume and fight crime. Bizarre is living in a cardboard box in an alley. Thinking you were born in Echigo and not remembering that it's Niigata Prefecture now is non-bizarre. It's all relative. She's on a low dose of a standard antipsychotic--standard here, that is. It's not approved for use in Japan. As long as she takes it regularly, she has no trouble keeping track of which century she's living in." I explained, quite exasperated at him at this point.

He scowled, not so much in anger as in deep thought. "--and this--this disorder of hers did not put you off?"

"Obviously not." I replied. "As you pointed out, I have a degree in psychiatry. Who better to understand and accept her as she is?"

"This would explain why her family accepted your marriage to the point where they entered it in their registry." he said, the (false) light dawning on him. "Unmarried and unmarriageble thanks to her mental illness, in her native country she would be an embarrassment to her family, and a burden as well. Married to a doctor and living overseas, she becomes 'the one who left home'--."

"Did you have to study to be so offensive, Professor, or is it natural talent?" I asked. "You are speaking of _my wife_. Now did you bring something for show and tell or not?" All the verisimilitude had been added to this unconvincing narrative as could be for the time being. A change of subject was in order, before the cracks started to show.

"Yes--but wait. Has she ever claimed to be someone else, or someone's reincarnation, during one of her episodes?" he asked, eagerly, hopefully.

I knew what he wanted to hear--that Shoko was, or had been Suzume. Well, of course she was, but coming right out and saying so would hardly be good tactics. "No," I told him, just a fraction too late and too forcefully. "She has not."

As it turned out, he had brought along an item; the obi which had belonged to the Courtesan from Hell. He had also brought along a copy of a print which showed the Courtesan wearing the obi, which was brocaded with images of hellfire, skeletons, and demons, to prove it. Shoko knew something he did not, I could tell from how the corner of her mouth twitched, but she did not speak out and contradict him. I could tell why he was so well known and well regarded as a professor; when he spoke about his subject, he was mesmerising, and he touched the cloth as he had Suzume's wardrobe.

He also regaled us with the tale of how he had stolen it from its museum, by taking off his suit coat and wrapping it around himself--exactly like what it was, a sash. I hoped that the recorder was holding out. Eventually he left--_without_ any of Suzume's things--and we could relax. Sort of. Suzume was very upset.

"It is Naomi-san. She was there, as before, but she is greatly diminished... Gifting me with her knowledge sapped her strength. I must--."

"And you are. We are carrying out her revenge. Today was very successful--Kemp not only brought along a stolen item, he told us in in detail how he stole it, and from whom and when. More than that, he is psychologically enmeshed in a web that will never let him go. He will die, heart-broken and humiliated, by his own hand. I promise."

Her eyes blazed. "May it all be as you have said!" she vowed fiercely.

"Yes. Now, I think you should change out of that and into your new clothes, because if you recall, the other day you made me a promise that when you spoke English better, you would come out with me and learn something about your new home." If I had any ulterior motives in regard to her changing, I am certainly not going to admit them.

"Oh! But--when I promised that, I thought that day would be a very long way off."

""Nevertheless--." I kept my tones light, not wanting to spook her.

"But where would we go?" she asked.

"I thought that for the first time, we would go to the grocery store. It will be a learning experience in many ways for you--and I suspect for me as well. It's not far."

"The grocery store," she repeated. "Jun-san, I...am afraid."

"I know, but staying inside with the doors locked will only increase your fears. The only way to grow past them is to face them."

She nodded, but her heart wasn't in it. "I will change, and I will go to the store with you."


	60. Deshabiliophobia: The Fear of Undressing

On the floor—look!

Entwined, our clothing

Imitates us.

-Yureiko Tsuruta Crane

* * *

What happened next began like a scene from one of those smirk-and-jiggle anti-intellectual teen sex comedies, along the lines of Porky's, or perhaps Animal House or American Pie. (I never went out of my way to see one, but I had a roommate who adored them.) Such movies glorify the 'jock' lifestyle, if it can be dignified by calling it a lifestyle, that is, and would have the viewer believe that any young man who does not go around in a constant state of priapism is not healthy and that all young women are there for is to act as 'cumdumpsters', I believe the phrase is. Distasteful, degrading, and insulting to both genders, if you ask me.

While the protagonists of all these movies are an endless parade of Bo Griggs and Sherry Squires, let us not leave out that well known figure of endless fun, the awkward, bespectacled nerd who can't get any. (And no, Revenge of the Nerds does not make up for it!) But I digress.

Suzume went up to change, and I waited to be on hand should she need help. Beyond untying a couple of knots, she managed quite well on her own until she got down to her white cotton slip. Its tie had frayed, the threads locking together into a dense wad with what seemed like the tensile strength of steel. She couldn't untie or break it. That was where I came in.

Rather than employ the Gordian solution of cutting it apart, I (little guessing the consequences) took hold of either side and yanked hard. The string not only broke, the slip tore apart and Suzume, caught off balance, lurched into me.

Suddenly I—had my hands full. Only for a moment, however, because Suzume gasped out, "Oh!" and pulled away, the picture of outraged modesty, covering herself and shrinking back as if I were Jack the Ripper.

"I'm sorry—it was an accident. I didn't mean to—." I gabbled out before I recovered my dignity. "Suzume, I would never, now or in the future, ever—force myself on you."

"It is not that," she replied, sounding miserable, "for indeed, I trust you. But my figure is…meager. I have a flat chest, and my legs are not curved and plump as they should be. I had hoped it would be dark, the first time—the first time I disrobed."

Her face had flushed deep rose. Well, so had mine. At that moment, Scarecrow was screaming 'Do something! Say something! Idiot!' and I was tongue-tied.

So it was Dr. Crane, believe it or not, who said: "Different cultures have different standards of beauty. As do men. I…think you have a lovely figure."

She sniffed back a quiet little sob. "Truly?"

"Truly—oh. Oh!" That last part was because Suzume had turned back toward me and dropped the remains of her slip. All she wore was a short hip wrap, and she could not meet my eyes, but looked at the floor instead.

Scarecrow stepped forward to cup her face in my/our hand, and raise her chin so she had to look me in the face. "Yes. Very truly. Most definitely."

After that—well, we were in my bedroom, and that meant there was a bed right there.

Good taste, modesty, and a desire not to wind up sleeping on the sofa again (she doesn't lock me out, but she lies there so rigid and chilly that sleeping on the sofa is preferable) forbid me from going into detail about what went on, but I _will_ say what did_ not_ happen. We did not have any form of intercourse. As I tell my patients, intercourse is not the be-all and end-all of sexual activity, and it's more important that the people involved be mutually happy with what's going on. Whatever that might be. Besides, it would have been unprotected, not to mention jumping the gun. As it were.

* * *

A/N: Yes, very short. I'm sorry! More next time!


End file.
